


On The Wrong Mans Arm

by telleroftales17



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug trafficking, Escort Service, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Sex Work, Sexual Content, Sexual Harrasment, Slow Burn, Slurs, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telleroftales17/pseuds/telleroftales17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's set the task of hiring a male escort for his boss, Alberto (one of the executive officers of the underground drug trafficking operation Mickey works for). However once he's done this he quickly decides he hates the redhead hired to fuck his boss, surely that would explain that burning feeling in his chest, right? Suddenly, going into work starts to get harder and harder with 'Curtis' being around all the goddamn time. Maybe if Mickey wasn't so hard in his trousers also, he could pretend it was for the reasons he wanted  so badly to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Moment's Hesitation

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I really hoped you enjoy this and would like to stick around to see the story play out :)

Mickey’s eyed blurred in and out of focus as he quickly tried to process just _exactly_ what his boss was asking of him.

“So wait, hold up. You want me to hold interviews to find you a fucking a prostitute?” Mickey blurted out sharply not even trying to disguise any astonishment in his tone.

Alberto rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. He learned back into his grand leather chair running a hand over the shadow of stubble he’d been sporting the past two days. It aged him, Mickey thought grudgingly as his shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot under the pressing gaze of his boss.

“Look here you”, Alberto huffed, though thankfully he didn’t sound threatening or even angry with the way Mickey had spoken to him. Mickey knew from the challenging six years he had worked for him that getting on the wrong side of Alberto meant getting your nuts chopped off. And that was if you were lucky. He had seen it plenty of times to know, one dumb fucker doing the smallest thing to displease Alberto, pressing him just that little bit too hard...and whoop, there goes their balls. “You do what I ask. And you do it well. You do it to your best fucking ability. No questions asked.”

Mickey nodded quickly. Obediently. But God did he hate that, Mickey was nobody’s bitch that was for sure, but hell, when it came to Alberto he knew not to cross the line. He wasn’t a fucking idiot. He did his job, and like Alberto asked, he did it well. He also had plenty of years of experience growing up in the place he did, and under the roof he did, to know when to keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. During those painfully bleak years of Mickey’s life, keeping his trap shut meant he got to live one more night in his own house, and sleep in his own bed. And, if he was really lucky not even having to fall asleep with a bruise blooming across some part of his body.

“I need this. I need you to do this for me.” Alberto’s voice was suddenly low and rough.

Glancing up Mickey caught the way he was glaring at him through his thick black eyebrows. Trying to hold back a gulp Mickey replied determinedly, “Yes, Sir.”

Having to put up with this man every goddamn day he was very aware of Alberto’s very dramatic rise in stress levels of late. He had been lashing out at employees left, right, and centre, ringing Mickey at the crack of dawn to run errands for him, staying up late at the office to handle the swelling number of customers they had recently run in to. And if the man wasn’t such a cold hearted bastard, maybe he would even feel kinda bad for him.

However, none of this was unusual for the time of year, this always happened when summer rolled around. More customers suddenly popped up out of the ground as if in sync with the all the flowers beginning to bloom, and even a handful of elite corporations and clients that really brought in the big bucks would sign on with them. And as a result Alberto would be tethering the line of just about holding himself together with a big false slimy grin, and a complete and utter mental breakdown that would obliterate everything in its wake. It was understandable that this man needed, really-desperately-before-Mickey-or-some-poor-other-victim-lost-their-head needed something to take the edge of. If that something was sex, well, Mickey wasn’t going to judge that. It’s not like he hadn’t used that one himself a few too many times. Only, Mickey hadn’t paid a high class prostitute to do it, but still, sex was sex.

Alberto straightened up in his chair, resting his elbows on the solid rosewood desk before him, like he always did when he was pleased.

Happy with Alberto’s attitude Mickey let out a small sigh of relief as he quickly pulled out the plush leather notebook he was gifted with as part of his job and was expected to have on him at all times. That way he was able to be at Alberto’s every beck and call. “Any preferences, Sir? The agencies we hire from? The type of guy? Price range?”

“Fuck money. As for the agencies...we want something clean. No big shot tabloid seekers who are happy to spill the goings on of their workers _and_ their clients to every journalist who comes knocking like it everybody’s fucking business. No, we wanna go through someone who is actually going to respect my privacy like they say. Ask what’s her name? Uh, Mandy, yeah ask Mandy who Benigno used. He’s done this thing before.” Then Alberto stood up, straightening his suit jacket smoothly and striding over to where Mickey stood in the centre of the grand office. He stopped just before him, a little too close for Mickey’s liking, and smirked grossly, the look of lust plastered shameless across his face.

When his eyed levelled with Mickey’s, he knew Alberto wasn’t even registering what he was seeing. His mind was in a different place completely.

“As for the boy himself. Well Mickey, I dare say you know my taste. Find me something...” He trailed off lost to the thoughts of his mind again and Mickey could only guess what dirty images of roughed up men he was flicking through. Finally after an uncomfortably long silence only Mickey was truly aware of, he brought himself to finish his command as if he was only now remembering why his right hand man was still standing around. “ _Delicious_ ”

 

* * *

 

Mickey was like an old man enough as it was, stuck in ways, he didn’t need bloody frown lines on top of that. But his job had him frowning pretty much every second of the day nevertheless. Working as the right hand man of one of the executive officers of an underground drug trafficking operation was stressful. But walking into work every day and catching the chill in the atmosphere as the pressure slowly built up around him, thick and vicious in its attack, it’s claws forever just scrapping out of reach of his neck, ready to sink into his tender flesh and drain the life out of him if he was to ever make the smallest slip up. That, that was just fucking terrifying. Mickey could practically feel the tension pulled taught like a sheet now that they were really storming in head first into the busiest time of the year for them. He was especially getting fed up of having to disappear to the bathroom during lunch to take a few deep breathes and place a cold wet hand towel to his head every few days when he felt things get that little _too_ much.

And now, on top of all his work load already, on top of the endless deadlines he had to meet, and the clients he was discussing deals with and oh god all the leg work he was up to, he was having to arrange a fucking prostitute for his boss?!

Granted, it wasn’t the most shocking task he had been challenged with throughout his years. There had definitely been worse ones. Ones that involved bodies. Dead bodies. But the idea of Mickey having to shuffle through an endless amount of muscular, gorgeous, tall and sexy men, analysing their every strength and weakness with a tough and strenuous annihilation process, and them not even to be for him! Well that just made him down right envious. He was not sure how he felt morally about paying a man to do him, he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of _men_ doing him at all, but he did know how he felt about getting laid.

Only, as Mickey made numerous phone calls the rest of the day to individual agencies to send in some of their best employees for viewings he had to keep reminding himself that whatever sex god made the cut, they wouldn’t be for him. They would be for his wealthy, suit wearing, gold rimmed walking stick carrying (even though he could walk perfectly fine) gangsta boss instead.

Mandy didn’t seem to sympathise.

“Jesus, Mickey! I would be bloody thankful if that was what Benigno was asking of me, but do I get the easy fucking cop out tasks from my boss? No, I get bullshit hard ones like hey, the Big Man is being a bitch again, go suck his dick for me to get him off my back. And then you can suck mine while you’re at it. Or hey how about you fly out to the-middle-of-fucking-no-where country to meet with this potentially interested totalitarian state leader? Oh hell why don’t you jump of this five-hundred meter tall building in a sun dress and shaking me up a martini!”

Mandy didn’t seem to sympathise _at all._

Bustled into the corner of one of the two’s most favourite coffee shops, Mickey leaned in closer over the table not even trying to hold back his grimace. “You’ve had to blow that shithead!? Christ, Mandy, you don’t have to put up with that shit!”

Mandy let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes, “That’s not the point.” She replied stopping to take a long drag on the straw of her drink. She didn’t answer the question Mickey noted, and he didn’t like the way she wanted to change the topic so quickly, but not wanting to force her right then he let it slide making a mental note that he would try and bring it up again later. No one hurt his sister. No one. “The point is, you’re getting paid to spend time checking out hot pieces of ass. You’d do that shit happily without getting paid”

Startled by Mandy’s open reference to his very very private sexuality Mickey yelped slightly as he jumped up in his chair as if he was going to cover her mouth and stop her from happily slipping out any more of his secrets. “Keep it down would you!” He forced through his teeth quickly doing a head scan of their area to see if anyone had heard. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, everyone too lost in their own lives to notice two dark haired siblings bickering about boys.

“No one is listening man,” She mumbled, but did indeed keep her voice down. She may like to push Mickey buttons sometimes, loved teasing him up the bloody wall, but she knew how he felt about the gay-thing. She respected his choice to keep it on the down low, even though she made it known she didn’t agree with it. But either way, Mickey was happy that she did that for him. Loved him enough to do that for him. “So, you going to let me help?” She suggested a little too enthusiastically and gave Mickey that all too familiar glare. The you’re-gonna-do-what-I-want-or-suffer-a-slow-and-painful-death glare.

He gave her one of his own famous looks, before shuffling slightly in his seat from the uncomfortable itch that burned away under his skin whenever his sexuality was mentioned. He answered with a shrug “I dunno, if you want I guess.”

Mandy nodded hiding the smile that crept along her face as she tilted her head away to avert her gaze. They both knew that this was Mickey’s way of saying _yes please I would like that._ Then with a sharp bang on the table with both her hands she was back to that over enthusiastic state and it was as if those three seconds of shyness hadn’t happened at all. “So, come on shithead. Let’s do this.”

Taking the last sip of his coffee before rolling his eyes Mickey leaned down to the pretentious dark tan leather brief case that rested against his leg. Again, just like the notebook, it was a part of his uniform for work that Alberto insisted upon. Mickey would rather he could carry his old heavy duty scruffy backpack, but apparently that screamed a little too much street dealer and not enough mafia dealer. If he was gonna work as a businessman, he had to look like one. Once he had been a thug dealing drugs and then he fell under Alberto’s wing and become a posh motherfucking thug dealing drugs. Not that it was something he embraced easily, but the cash he checked at the end of every month made up for that.

He quickly pulled his laptop case out the bag and unzipped his laptop before setting it up on the table as Mandy screeched her chair against the floor as she excitedly tried to shuffle around to get a better look. The noise agitated Mickey, being calm did not come easily to him, but he moved over to give her more room.

Sitting closer now, Mickey could smell the faintest touches of male aftershave on Mandy’s clothes that coarsely clashed against the stronger sent of her feminine perfume. He once again thought back to the idea of Benigno taking advantage of her, and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach and his fists unintentionally curled against the keyboard of his laptop.

Sensing his unexpected distress Mandy glanced at him worriedly, “Hey, wow, Mick it’s ok. We don’t have too...” She trailed off meeting his hard gaze.

The heat. Mickey could feel it burning like fire in his veins, growing and rising and intensifying. It curled up his neck and blazed across his shoulders. The familiar feeling of the twitching in is knuckles kicked in, the impulse to hit something, the need to lash out, as common a feeling as the need to breathe. It was instinctual. Fight or flight. There was no doubt in Mickey’s heart that he was a fighter. And when it came to his sister, he was a fucking ruthless one.

Only he couldn’t do this right now, not here. He knew deep down that Mandy wouldn’t want him to inflict himself upon her business like that; too loose his shit in a bloody coffee shop was not the right way to handle the situation. And he didn’t want to take that anger out on Mandy, when he was trying to help her, but she was the only one around to get angry at. No. he needed to wait until the right moment to handle this. And so once again he shoved it to the back of his mind for a later day.

“No. It’s ok I just-” He sighed around his words trying to defuse the flames of his rage.

“It’s ok.” Mandy interrupted reaching out to place a hesitant hand against his arm. He could feel the warmth of her finger tips through his shirt and he focused on that small delicate sign of affection to help him breathe and gradually bring himself down from the red that had clouded his vision.

Shooting her a small nod to give her the all clear sign to know that he was ok, he turned back to the laptop bringing up the search browser.

“I’ve already contacted a couple of agencies, asking them about what their service offers and getting them to send in guys and shit. I’m thinking about twenty should be fine, right? I mean too many and we’ve got a fucking orgy on our hands.”

“Yeah,” Mandy scoffed “twenty is beyond fine.”

“Right so I’ve arrange for like...” Mickey stopped to think through the numbers in his head absentmindedly counting on his fingers “seventeen so far, so we just got those last three lucky spots to fill.” He said sarcastically.

Mandy held back a laugh as she learned in across Mickey stretching out to reach the laptop and type something into the web browser.

“Have you tried...” she drifted off beginning to type the last of her words.

Mickey’s brow furrowed, “OTE?” he read out as Mandy hit the entre button.

“Old Town Elite.” Mandy informed him clicking on to their website. It was slick, Mickey was impressed. Screaming professional. But also screaming sex. _Charming,_ he thought. Black and white with touches of silver in the font and backgrounds. Within a few clicks Mandy had entered in the very vague preferences of: GAY/MALE/YA.

“YA?” he questioned.

“Young adult. That’s his type right? Young men?”

Mickey nodded slowly.

Alberto wasn’t exactly old himself, yes he wasn’t a ‘young adult’ anymore, but he definitely wasn’t in need of that walking stick he insisted on carrying about everywhere. Once again, it was just one of those things that made up the ‘image’ he was trying to present, an image he was so insistent on keeping up. And at forty-six Alberto was looking pretty good for his age. His grey hairs were just starting to peek through his jet black hair, and his wrinkles were restricted to around his eyes and mouth. He had deep brown eyes, shrouded slightly by those busy brows, though paired with that stubble made him appear rugged. He was naturally tanned, fucking Italians, and was what Mickey would consider a decent height. Which was, taller than him. He wasn’t toned and muscular or anything, but he has wide shoulders, a flat stomach and big enough arms to suggest that he could throw a good punch. He was just average, Mickey guessed.

The website gave them hundreds of results.

Mickey sighed heavily. He was in no way prepared to shift through all of those.

“Jesus,” Mandy mumbled under her breath. “Right ok, let’s have some fun with this shall we?” She smirked wiggling her eyebrows at Mickey who just sat there blinking, very unsure of what his sister was trying to insinuate.

She brought out the preferences tab on the side bar. Mickey’s eyes widened as they scrolled over the many options and tick boxes that enabled you to select your perfect hooker. Fuck, it was like they were buying a car.

Mandy seemed to know what she was doing after having done this for Benigno before and got to work with quickly filling out the requirements of the man they were seeking. Mickey sat silently for a while, allowing Mandy to take the reins, trusting her.

“Pale, he likes them pale.” Mickey added and Mandy continued to tap away entering their specifications.

“What? Like you?” she said teasingly.

“Fuck off”

“Maybe he could just hire you.”

“bitch you saying I could pass for a cheap prostitute?”

“Escorts, asswipe. Their escorts. There’s a difference.”

“Whatever, they both end up fucking you.” Mickey swatted her hands away and with a piercing glare she fell back in her seat letting him take over.

He filled in two more options.

 _Long-term service_ being the first.

Then, he typed into an additional information box: _willing to be subject to the public eye._

He glanced at Mandy for confirmation. “Definitely. Alberto is going to be pulling him off to flounce about with him everywhere. Parties, banquets, fucking meetings probably. Poor fucker is gonna be glued to his side morning, day and night. Alberto is a show off, and he’s gonna want to show that hot piece of ass off right?”

“Right.” Mickey agreed because that was exactly what Alberto would do. He turned back to the laptop.

The coffee shop seemed to fall silent around Mickey then as a spark lit somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. He zeroed in on one last option and after the slightest pause, that moment’s hesitation when the outcome could fall either way, he selected it with a satisfying _click!_

_Red hair._

Mandy lunged out to tap _enter_ swiftly, excited to see the results.

Only one appeared.

_Curtis Wilder._


	2. Playing the Role

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then it was as if everything was happening in slow motion for Mickey, just as he was glancing up as his arms came to cross over his chest in that proactive manner the automatic doors slid back, making way and parting like the red fucking sea for the twenty male escorts in five perfectly formed rows of four that breezed in"

Mickey had broken a sweat as he had finally clambered late into work.

This was for three reasons. One, Mickey’s alarm hadn’t gone off because his stupid fucking clock had decided to die on him in the middle of the night meaning he had woken up half an hour later than usual, flustered, scrambling out of his sheets, and pulling on his clothes from yesterday – not looking back. This meant he had to practically run to work, doing that awkward half jog half walk thing where you didn’t want to look too stupid but you really needed to get to your destination quickly before your boss murdered you.

Two, summer was really getting into full swing now so as well as running between each quick subway ride Mickey was sweltering under the radiance of the sun that had burned down on him mercilessly the whole way. Fuck Alberto for making him wear a bloody suit.

Reason number three was a little harder to rationalise. It wasn’t as simple as it being stupidly hot outside, or that he was had been running a couple blocks on a completely empty belly. Reason three had a lot more to do with the butterflies tickling his stomach as he considered that he would be spending the entire day running through interviews to score Alberto his perfect fuck. Spending the entire day surrounded by perfectly sculptured bodies with piercingly bold and sexy features. These men practically ate, slept and breathed sex appeal. Yes, Mickey had obviously found himself in the company of attractive men before, but this was _different_.

He was so on edge, every muscle in his body tight and the palms of his hands perspiring as he shuffled around the grand reception of the hotel in which the interviews were being held. The hotel was owned by the Big Man, and so practically all events were held inside its luxurious walls. This way they were able to maintain a controlled environment at all times; they were able to have responsibility and rule over everything. A person couldn’t sneeze in that building without them knowing about it. It was the perfect lair for all and every situation: The event, the party, be it a meeting or a ball, perhaps even a hustle...or in Mickey’s case, an interview. It was all that they would ever need to carry it out in.

The generous Alberto had relieved his right hand man of all his duties for the day which to someone who did not know him the way Mickey did, that might have sounded kind, but he knew better. It was a selfishly twisted act. He was clearly very desperate to get his hands on his new toy and equally desperate for Mickey to do a perfect job of finding him one.

In just a few minutes the taxi’s Mickey had arranged to collect the sex workers would be arriving.

Pulling on the lapels of his suit jacket and popping his arm up so his sleeve slide back just enough for Mickey to be able to check the flashy watch on his wrist he leaned back against the front desk, crossing one leg over the other and trying to appear calm and not as if he was about to shit himself.

Then it was as if everything was happening in slow motion for Mickey, just as he was glancing up as his arms came to cross over his chest in that proactive manner the automatic doors slid back, making way and parting like the red fucking sea for the twenty male escorts in five perfectly formed rows of four that breezed in. They strutted down the middle of the lobby like it was their own goddamn run way, all in perfect synchronisation, heads held high and all twenty pairs of eyes staring straight to the back of the room, to the desk, to Mickey. He thought his legs were about to give out. Maybe if he hadn’t been leaning against the desk which thankfully was steadying him he would have actually collapsed to the floor in that moment.

For a second he didn’t know what to do with himself, but was saved when a lanky figure came running around from behind the mass of muscle stationed now at a holt in the middle of the room. Claude, (the lanky figure) wouldn’t know it, but in that moment he had been Mickey’s little blessing in disguise.

He turned all his attention to Claude, as if he could forget the group that stood just out of ear shot. The driver came bounding up to him like a puppy, and stopped just before him with a smile big enough to light the room up.

Claude was one of the company’s personal part time drivers and had worked exclusively for them for the past four years now. But he was also Alberto’s full time official chauffer which meant Mickey got to cruise with him shotgun whenever Alberto needed driving somewhere.

Claude quirked an eyebrow, a michesvious glint in his eye. Mickey considered punching him in the face. Reading the signals well, the man stopped, but stepped in closer to speaking in a hushed tone instead.

“You’re gonna have a lot of fun with these lot, if the drive down here was anything to go by.”

Mickey turned his back on the crowd with a huff, stepping in closer to whisper, a bright tuft of red just catching his eye before they were all out of view. Claude followed his lead turning so they were both facing away from the legit angels of God that were gracing them with their beautiful presence. Mickey for a moment almost glanced back round to find the source of the red, intrigued to see what he would find. Only he shoved of the weird instinct to reply to Claude.

“Like fuck I’m gonna have fun I have to spend the whole day with these rich bitch faggots.”

Claude smile dimmed slightly at Mickey’s choice of words but he didn’t say anything. Instead he thumped him on the shoulder and Mickey was careful not to react because he didn’t let anyone touch him but Mandy. He liked his personal space, violate it and he would happily throttle you, but for now he would let this small act slide. Claude was, if Mickey was going to be painfully honest, the closest thing he had a friend.

With on last full beem grin Claude stepped away straightening the taxi man like hat on his head and bounded off in the way he had arrived. Mickey turned to watch him go, still trying to kill time before addressing his job.

“I’ll catch up with you later, man” the diver called over his shoulder just before disappearing out the sliding doors. Mickey noticed some of the angels turn to see who had spoken, and then look between him and Mickey.

Taking a deep breath and straightening his posture, because he knew it as now or never, he strode over to the group of men praying that he radiated that air of cocky confidence he usually had.

“Right, listen up. I only say things once so if you miss what I say, the fault is yours and only yours. And believe me, you’re gonna wanna hear what I have to say,” he paused to let the words linger, and then slipped his hands into his suit trouser pockets. That illusion of confidence coming slightly easier now that he had started speaking and he was pleased to see the almost started look on the men’s faces to his direct tone. “My name is Mickey. You will refer to me as Sir. And I will refer to you however I want. You will be my responsibility throughout the day so help a man out and don’t try and pull any dumb shit.” He cocked his head to the side and swept his gaze across the rows before him hoping his little speech (that he had planned and practiced all night) had them knowing their place. Knowing that Mickey was the one in change, even if he did feel like he was about to throw up any last bit of food he still had inside him from yesterday. But for a split second he let himself dwell in the pride he felt for having carried that out smoothly. Thank fuck.

Then after a beat, he turned on his heels, trying to mimic the many times he had watched Alberto carry it off and look like a polished motherfucker. Letting out a shaky breathe now that they couldn’t see him, he snapped his fingers above him as he started to walk.

“Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

Standing on the 45th floor of the Golden Peak Hotel Mickey gulped, swaying slightly on the spot as he peered out the wall of glass that stretched over two sides of the large room. The other two walls were covered in deep red wallpaper and displayed large scale abstract pieces of art. This was not Mickey’s average environment, even after having worked here for so long, he had never truly felt completely comfortable in the new life he was living. The new facade. The new image. It didn’t feel like him. It was as if he was living someone else’s life and every day he opened his eyes he expected to be back in Canaryville in the house he would rather refer to as hell then home. No matter how far he could run, he would never escape the demons of his past, or the person that he had used to be. Some part of him was still just that broken, terrified, penniless thug from the south side bursting with uncontrollable, and unexplainable rage with bruises hiding beneath his clothes. The bruises always healed over time; only the thing is there were bigger, dark wounds he had also been hiding, unfortunately for him, those wounds he still carried today.

Keeping his back to the men that were lined up against the far wall behind him he slipped his hands in to his pockets again looking out over the grand view of the north side of Chicago. He knew he should get to work because fuck, it wasn’t exactly gonna do it itself and he had killed enough time as it was; but he really couldn’t help but liger there staring down on the bustling city in his slick black suit. He wondered how he looked to the men behind him, what was the impression they got of him? Was it the impression he tried so hard to achieve?

Fuck it. It was time to grab this task by its balls and make it his bitch. So, trying to forget about the heavy pounding of his heart and the swelling feeling of the need to breathe fresh air instead of being trapped in this room with these people in this place, he finally plucking up all his courage and turned round to address his audience.

“Today you are all goddamn lucky enough to be privileged with the opportunity to land yourself the client of the century, Mr De Rege himself. Look around,” Mickey spread out his arms gesturing to the grand room they stood in. With its high ceiling and its perfect blend of old and new. Modern and minimalist juxtaposed elegantly with touches of traditional and vintage features. It was a room out of what Mickey liked to call a living the dream magazine. He only had to glance at the ornate and magnificently large mirror that hung on the wall to his right, with its gold leave painted frame to be reminded that everything around them was a part of the life of someone with serious dollars. “This, is the world you have the opportunity to be invited into,” Mickey watched as some of them did actually glimpse around in awe, and restrained a smile. “So, word of advice. Don’t fuck this up. Regret really is a bitch, boys”

He gestured to the row of chairs set out in the middle of the room. “Sit,” he commanded and watched slightly star struck that they all actually obeyed willingly.

He really wasn’t use to this kind of power, mostly he just watched Alberto enforce it; but now his time had come. He just hoped he could pull it off; he wasn’t one for the spotlight. Christ, he just liked to stand in the shadows. Be the background man. Watch from afar. Clearly, that wasn’t how he was allowed to play it today.

“We are on a very tight schedule today so if we all stick to our jobs, and you all listen to and do everything I say, we can get done what we came here to achieve. Then I can get back to doing my _actual_ job. And you can get back to your miserable lives,” He shrugged nonchalantly, “of course apart from that one lucky bastard among you.” He paused for effect. Waiting three meaningful seconds before carrying on, “You better all have read up on today’s criteria that I took the time and effort to email your agencies. If you didn’t, that’s your own fucking fault and you’re gonna be lost as hell.”

Mickey walked in what he hoped was a calm manner to the door of the room, pulling it towards him and propping it open with his foot. All the sharp angelic eyes in the room followed him. “This is how it’s gonna work for round one. Charlotte, my assistant...she’ll be here soon, she likes to take her own bloody time that one,” that got some light scoffs and chuckles, “will call your name. You will follow her down to the board room where I will interview you. Then when we are done, you will come back to this room immediately. No taking the long scenic routine or some shit, ok you walk as fast as your little feet will carry you back to this room. No detours no sniffing about in other rooms no exceptions. If you are caught doing otherwise I got a friend called pain that will happily teach you a lesson or two. Are we clear?”

A collection of slow, rapid and insistent nods followed.

“What was that?” Mickey’s eyebrows rose expectantly.

“Yes” Some of them spoke up.

“Huh?” His brows rose further into his hairline.

“Yes, Sir” Most of them spoke in unison.

Mickey sighed heavily, “Let’s hope you shithead all actually get it together for your interviews because at this rate I will be sending you all home.” He complained like the moody ass he was as he turned to disappear out the door – only, he didn’t.

Instead, he was caught dead in his tracks his body working before his mind even could process why they fuck he was stood still as a statue in the door frame. That red tuft, he had caught sight of it again. But this time it wasn’t just a tuft, there was a whole head of it. Of thick tousled vibrant red hair. It was the most shockingly amazing thing Mickey had ever seen and his fingers unexpectedly twitched with the need to run through it. To feel it glide between his finger tips.

The physical reaction of his body surprised him so much he was close to actually screaming at it. What the fuck did it think it was doing!? Feeling goddamn twitches in his fingertips, what was that about?! But before he could even start to get angry at himself for a reason he didn’t truly understand, or wish to think about any longer, his eyes had travelled down devouring the image before him. Because the hair belonged to a face. And a torso. And arms and legs. There was a whole fucking human being attached to it.

Two words lingered on his tongue but he pushed them back swallowing around them and feeling the sweet taste of them in his mouth. Tingling against his taste buds. If that’s what they felt like resting on the tip of his tongue, what did it feel like to speak them?

Light coloured eyes pierced into his. Strong, determined, fearless eyes that refused to waver from his for a second. He was too far away to distinguish their colour he noticed disappointedly. But they were warm and big and– AND AGAIN what the actual ever loving fuck was he doing?!

Before he was allowed any more time to make an even bigger idiot of himself than he already had something hit him with full impact in the middle of his chest, knocking the wind out of him and making him stumble backwards slightly before he could regain his footing. For a split second Mickey thought he might be having a heart attack. God know his body was surprising him left, right and centre today. Why not just go and pull the fucking mat out from under him why doesn’t it!?

But as he came back into focus of his surroundings a little too slowly and he heard a panicked voice in close proximity to him he knew, nope, he had not just experienced the oncoming storm of a heart attack and had rather just be walked into rather heavily by Charlotte. So maybe he had been a tad bit over dramatic, but whatever. He had been slightly distracted. Or overly distracted. Whatever you considered freezing mid-action to be.

“Wow sorry Mickey I didn’t see you there!” Charlotte hurriedly apologised backing away from him quickly with her hands up as if too show she meant no harm. As if she could properly ever harm anyone anyway.

It registered fully then with Mickey that there were in fact other people in the room apart him and the owner of that wickedly red hair, who he was now avoiding looking at completely. Nineteen other people. Twenty, if Charlotte was to count. All who had just experienced his casual fucking paralysis and now were presenting him with quizzical and confused looks. Well wasn’t that just _wonderful_.

“You’re late.” Mickey commented sharply.

And with that he finally followed through with his original intentions stomping out with such force he felt the door jar as he flung it open to its full limit. And just like that morning when he’d left for work, once he was out the door –he didn’t look back. Only this time, it was for a very different reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I completed that a lot faster then I thought I would! Hahaha I guess I'm just enjoying this so much I couldn't stop.  
> This chapter was in fact quite a bit harder to write then the first one, with a few introductions of a some new original characters and places. I understand that this chapter might have been a bit boring, as not much happened, expect at the end, and it was also pretty short. BUT I promise that the excitement will come in due time, it isn't called a slow burn for nothing ;)  
> Also the chapters are going to get longer, they wont all be short like this and more stuff will start to happen very soon.  
> All feeback is welcome, seriously let me know what you guys think and I just really hope that you are like this!


	3. Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you to fuck me. Deep and slow.” 
> 
> If he had felt sleepy before, he now felt like he’d just been electrocuted.

Nine interviews in and Mickey felt like he was losing his mind.

There was no other way to put it.

Losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

As the ninth candidate left the room he tossed Mickey an offhand grin over his shoulder and even dared to throw in a cheeky wink. A legit I’d-consider-fucking-you wink. The nerves of these assholes, seriously. Mickey almost pushed out of his seat right there and then and decked the guy. His fist in his face could teach him a thing or two.

He restrained himself, digging his fingernails painfully into his leg to fight off the impulse. He held them there, allowing the growing ache to shoot up his leg until he’d finally gotten his breathing back under control before removing them tentatively.

His mind flicked back to his embarrassing freezing fiasco in the waiting room earlier that morning and he knew crushingly that that small mistake had tainted, if not ruined, the role Mickey had been trying to play. He had slipped up. He knew grudgingly that if he hadn’t maybe the ninth candidate would have shown him the respect he deserved and not tried flirting with him instead.

Fucking Redhead.          

The spots on his thigh where his fingers had been moments before stung sensitively. Mickey wondered if perhaps he had broken the skin. He sat still for a few moments lost in thought because what if he had broken the skin and there was enough blood that it soaked through on to his trousers? But surely there couldn’t be that much blood. It was a habit of Mickey’s to squeeze or dig or pierce into his leg when he was on edge.

He stood up slowly, pressing down on the desk to ease himself up. Running a hand over his face with a deep sigh he decided he was in desperate need of a break. The fact that he could possibly have blood dribbling down his leg also felt like a good enough excuse. He quickly let Charlotte know through the intercom that he was taking a piss break, and left sluggishly dragging his feet behind him.

Mickey still hadn’t eaten or drunk anything all day and he was really beginning to feel the effects. He knew for a fact he definitely wouldn’t be as irritable and agitated if he’d gotten time for breakfast, or just a coffee. Fuck, maybe even just a smoke. His head felt heavy like he was carrying around a weight inside it and his eyelids drooped, aching to close completely.

Pushing the bathroom door open he strolled in with a yawn.

Just as he was about the turn the corner into the wider room he vaguely registered the sound of deep voices. He also vaguely registered that he should stop. Stop now and leave and never come back because in that moment some part of Mickey that was still capable of processing information and not falling asleep like every other part of him knew, _sensed_ , the sexual frustration think in the air. It hung heavy in the room like a dirty rag. But it was too late, his legs were working on autopilot and the information just wasn’t processing fast enough and he was already turning the corner and it was just too late to turn back. He was there, in the bathroom, completely; finally the voices clicked into place slapping him around the face so hard he could have sworn he felt his cheek sting as he was jolted into full blown consciousness.

“I want you to fuck me. Deep and slow.”

If he had felt sleepy before, he now felt like he’d just been electrocuted.

Mickey’s jaw dropped so hard and so fast he was surprised it didn’t just fall right off and clatter to the ground. He could probably handle that better than the image before his eyes.

Redhead, pushed up against the wall by the scruff of his shirt by none other than interviewee the ninth who was staring him down like a piece of meat, biting his lip ravenously like he was just about ready to swallow the boy whole. If Mickey wasn’t so utterly and completely shell shocked he probably would have made some cock sucking joke about that. But like hell did have time for jokes. Not when actual gay fucking was about to commence before his very eyes if he didn’t do something, anything to delete, erase, obliterate this entire situation.

Redhead was grinning widely down at the man pressed up against him like he was more than fine with everything that was passing between the two.

“What,” Mickey jumped to life moving further into the bathroom making his presence know, “ _the fuck!?”_

The two men jumped apart like someone has just fired a loaded gun, their heads snapping towards Mickey, eyes bulging out of their sockets with astonishment and gasping breathlessly.

All three of them stared each other down in bewilderment for what felt like an eternity. The sound of the blood pumping furiously in Mickey’s ears the only noise to reach him.

Redhead seemed to recover first, blinking rapidly as his eyes darted from interviewee the ninth to Mickey. “Sir, this– this isn’t what it looks like. I mean– I get how that might have looked but–”

“I think that was _exactly_ what it looked like.” Mickey interrupted his voice flat and slow, his shoulders and jaw tight.

The other boy piped up then flustered, “No but dude...I mean uh Sir. This is simply a misunderstanding.”

Practically yelling, his lips curling up in anger, Mickey replied, “Do you take me for some kinda idiot?! Misunderstanding my ass. If _that_ ,” he gestured widely between the two boys and then pointed fiercely to the wall Redhead had been pinned against only moments ago “could pass for a misunderstanding then I could pass for Jesus.”

Redhead stepped forward arms held up innocently, “But honestly if only we could explain-”

“Oh God save me the pain asswipe and shut the fuck up before I actually lose the contents of my stomach.”

Redhead stepped forward again opening his mouth as if to reply, but then did himself a favour and stopped, stepping backward to undo his action.

If this had happened to Mickey in any other time or place he would have walked out then. Leaving them to their own business.

If this had happened back in Canaryville he would have kicked the shit out of them. If he had been with his brothers, he would have done it like he meant it.

But this was neither of those situations so Mickey felt lost on what the right form of action should be.

He stared at the two men hard, trying to look full of disgust and heat rather than letting his true emotions of confusion and anxiety show on his face.

Redhead was flushed pink with embarrassment across his cheeks and neck, staring down at the bathroom tiles as if they were the only thing in the room.

Interviewee the ninth looked annoyed at the least, arms now folded over his hard chest, biting at his lip again only this time in irritation.

Mickey didn’t need to think twice before he strode across the bathroom closing the distance between him and interviewee the ninth until he was just outside the limits of the guy’s personal space. The boy uncrossed his arms as the sense of worry seeped back into his expression.

_Yeah, you should be scared, asscrack._

Mickey looked him dead in the eyes. “You, are cut. I never want to see your fat fucking face in this building, or any building owned by us – ever again.”

The man looked confused his head shaking from side to side slowly.

“You are _done_. Pick up your twink ass and get the hell outta here.”

The man stepped back, Mickey’s words suddenly making sense.                    

“Sir, please. I’m sorry–”

Mickey walked backwards slowly throwing up his arms, “God don’t beg like the desperate bitch you,” He exhaled sharply, realising he should probably step back into that businessman professionalism he had been wearing up until now having let it slip, “You had one chance. And you blew it.”

He turned on Redhead next, who looked so startled, but definitely not as easily shaken up or scared as his ‘friend’.

“As for you,” Mickey raised his eyebrows in his direction “Come with me.” He titled his head towards the door signalling for him to follow him as he walked out.

 

* * *

 

 

Charlotte’s eyes widened in horror, “Mickey, you can’t be serious?!”

Mickey fell back into a leather seat exasperatedly. “I couldn’t make that shit up even if I tried.”

Charlotte sat down softly into the seat next to him her hands rapped daintily around a freshly made cup of tea. She didn’t say anything for a long while leaving both her and Mickey to dwell in their thoughts.

“So, what are you going to do?” She spoke quietly, blinking up at Mickey expectantly.

Mickey didn’t answer the question.

“I should have cut him too.”

She shrugged lightly with both shoulders. “Maybe. That does seem like the neutral, unbiased and ultimately equal decision to make.”

Mickey shot her a hard look. “You done?”

“Sorry” She offered up and to be fair to her, she did sound like she meant it. “But you know that is the truth, Mickey. As an outside opinion, and as your friend, I can see why you did what you did. But as your colleague...we’ll honey that was rash of you to cut him. You let your personal feelings towards him cloud your judgement. You know there is no place for that in business.”

He sunk deeper into his seat, slouching like a grumpy child with his arms crossed sulkily over his chest. “I said, and you fucking finished?”

“Sorry.” She repeated and this time stayed silent.

Another few minutes went by in silence.

“I should have done it the second he started flirting with me during his interview anyway.”

She seemed surprised that Mickey had broken the silence first, but even more surprised by what he had said.

“Oh heavens! You didn’t tell me he did _that_.” She tilted to face him in her chair as she brought her mug to her lips.

“Yeah well, I was kinda a bit caught up with the deep and slow fucking I was almost witness to,” Charlotte chocked on her sip of tea, spluttering all over the place as she coughing dramatically, “His choice of words, not mine.”

But she chose to ignore that comment as she recovered herself, “What exactly do you mean by flirting? Because I know you Mickey. The slightest kindness or warmth from another male and you, well, close in on yourself. Turn on that hard, scary persona.”

“Fuck you, that’s no persona.”

She gave him a look, as if to say they both knew that wasn’t true.

She was really pushing her luck today. Calling him sweetie, making accusations about his character, telling Mickey off like she was his mother. He had half the mind to walk out. But as she had so graciously reminded him, there was no place for personal feelings in business.

“He kept _smiling.”_ He started but Charlotte looked like she was about to laugh at him so he carried on quickly before she could start giving him shit, “And he winked!”

Her face grew quizzical then and she set her mug down on the coffee table in front of them.

“Yeah, now you can’t tell me that’s not blatant 101 flirting. You just know, ok. Just fucking everything he did was a clear enough signal.” He quirked an eyebrow, “I don’t expect you to understand.” He added taking his own dig and feeling slightly more content.

Although she didn’t get offended or grumpy or pissing about it. Instead she laughed wholeheartedly, “Ok. I believe you. Perhaps you were correct in cutting him then. The other boy didn’t really do anything to deserve such a serve punishment though, so I guess it’s for the best that he’s got still a chance at it.”

She smiled at him lightly but he just huffed and looked down at his feet.

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey strolled into the interview room, file in hand, adjusting his tie after having removed it during his interlude in the staff room.

He’d left Redhead isolated from the rest of the group and waiting in the interview room for a good half an hour. He thought that seemed like a decent amount of time to really have him sweating. It was also enough time for Mickey to grab a bite to eat, get mothered by Charlotte, and light one up.

But now it was time to face the music.

Redhead was sitting hunched over, slouching slight in his chair. The second he noticed Mickey having entered the room he straightened up immediately, brining his hands to rest in his lap.

Mickey didn’t look at him; instead he pulled out his own chair to sit down across from him and flung the file down on to the table with a loud slap. The noise echoed around the room.

Taking a deep breath in before letting it out with a sigh he turned his eyes to him.

Redhead was already staring at Mickey with enough intensity to make him want to hide.

He had wanted Redhead to sweat, but now _he_ felt hot enough to sweat right through his shirt because he was finally close enough to be able to distinguish his eye colour across the desk.

Green. His eyes were a sparkling, rich green.

He held his gaze, not wanting to back down. For one, two, three seconds. And that was all Mickey could handle before he felt like he was legit gonna crack under the power of his stare and he looked away to open up the folder before him.

Looking down at the page he tried to process the information but it was all a blur because the only thing consuming Mickey’s mind was apple green eyes.

He decided to repeat the first typed words on the page out loud because that was a good place to start, “Curtis Wilder?” He said, speaking those two words that had tasted so sweet on his tongue that morning. He remembered how they had tingled on his taste buds. Only now when he spoke them they tasted different, almost inappropriate.

Curtis gave one slow firm nod, “Yes, Sir.”

“First I need to ask you some mandatory questions. To fill out a few gaps in this folder,” Mickey informed sliding a ballpoint pen out of his breast pocket.

“Sure.” Another smaller nod that time.

“So you’ve been signed with OTE for three years now?”

“I have.”

“And before that..?”

“I was a gogo dancer.”

Mickey coughed into his hand sharply to hide his surprise, and then cleared his throat properly. He held back a slight chuckle, “I meant if you had been signed with any other agencies. They will hold all your personal details and past clients, so it’s important that we know.”

“Oh,” he looked a little embarrassed with his mistake hesitating before he answered. “No. OTE were the first agency to have picked me up.”

“Right.” Mickey noted on the page making a quick scribble of his answer.

“So did you do any independent work?” And then he quickly added to clarify this time, leaving Curtis no room for interpretation, “As an escort.”

“No, just the, you know, dancing.”

Mickey made another quick note. Clicking his pen ideally as his eyes scanned the page.

“And just to be clear, you are ok with long-term service?”

An enthusiastic nod this time as he pulled his chair in close to the table, resting one arm on it lightly. “Yes. That would be ideal.”

“Why is that?” Mickey asked intrigued, raising an eyebrow. He felt himself relax more into the conversation now that it was underway.

“I like the stability, the consistency. The people who hire my service enjoy a wide range of activates and they all expect very difference things from me. Some could just be looking for company, while others look for that little bit _more_. Remaining with one person means I can become familiar with their needs, their desires. I can learn to please them in every single possible way they could want.”

Mickey’s mouth went dry. Dry like the plains of the fucking Sahara desert. He glanced down at Curtis’ long fingers rested on the table and instinctively tightened his grasp on his pen.

“And you think you’re the man to please Mr De Rege?” He replied trying to sound indifferent.

“Yes I do.” Curtis replied in full seriousness, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

_Confident fucker._

Mickey lent back in his chair crossing his arms.

Curtis in silent response leant forward with a dark glint in his eye, resting both his elbows on the table and bringing his hands together to rest his fingertips against each other, his palms parting in the middle.

It wasn’t the appropriate manner for an interview.

Do: Be polite. Shake their hand. Sit neatly.

Do Not: Make yourself at home on the interviewer’s desk you prick.

“You’ve been working for three years. Many of the men here today have worked three times as many years as that. In terms of experience they are miles ahead.” Mickey pushed coldly.

“Well experience they may have, but in this industry that also means they’ve been around the block a few too many times. Forgive me for assuming, but I don’t believe Mr De Rege is the kind of man who wants to be prancing about with someone who’s been on the arm of all his friends?”

Mickey didn’t have an answer to that, because honestly Curtis had a point. So instead he turned his attention to the file, which was turning out to be his go to distraction, and wrote something pointless down in the hopes it appeared to be something actually very important. He wrote three long sentences of nonsense, just to make Curtis paranoid.

The man did in fact seem to regret his sudden boldness, averting his gaze to the table top and removed his elbows from it.

Mickey glanced back up, pen poised at the ready.

“Any history with STD’s? Infections?”

“I’m clean as a whistle.”

“Well you’d need to be if a guy was gonna blow you.” Mickey quirked before he could stop himself.

Curtis stilled.

Mickey mentally shot himself.

If Mickey had been trying to scramble any last hopes of professionalism to be able to still label this conversation an ‘interview’, he’d just thrown it all out the window.

But suddenly Curtis cracked snorting in to his hand to try and hold back his laughter but then unexpectedly Mickey lost it too chuckling deep in his throat.

Seeing Mickey give in, Curtis followed suit removing his hand from his mouth to let his deep, solid laughter fill the room. Mickey caught a snap shot of him between his own moments of embarrassed laughter. His head was thrown back, the tousles of his red hair bouncing as his shoulder shook. His eyes were closed lightly and his hand was placed on his abdomen. It didn’t seem the least bit restrained or awkward like Mickey’s did.

“Did,” Curtis started, his laughter trailing off as he tried to collect himself. “Did you intend for that to be a pun?”

“I’m very quick on my feet, Wilder.”

“I don’t doubt you are.” He chuckled still recovering from his hard laughter.

Something inside Mickey jolted then, and instantly he felt lost without the disguise of the role he was meant to be playing. He wasn’t here to have fun and joke around with a red head prostitute. He was here to work and reach a result. He felt his pulse stutter as he let the unexpected ease between the two slip away. And the walls came back up around Mickey. “Well I did manage to catch you in the act didn’t I” Mickey said suddenly serious.

He boys whole face dropped and his eyebrows kitted together for a flicker of a second, disappearing before Mickey could register it completely, but he was sure he’d seen it.

Before he could think about that for too long, Curtis was reflecting back Mickey’s serious, closed expression, as if he too had been reminded of why they were both there in the first place.

Neither of them had a chance to say anything though because in that moment the door swung open abruptly and none other than Mr Alberto De Rege himself walked in.

This one event had two very different effects on the two boys.

Mickey, distressed, stood up messily and pulled on the lapels of his jacket and ran a hand through his hair, as if he had been a in a messy state which needed correcting. Which he hadn’t. But something about the situation made Mickey feel as if he’d just been taught with his pants down.

Curtis however, was everything that was the opposite of Mickey. He watched the transformation unfold before his eyes. It was instant; as quick as the click of the fingers. And just as effortless. His whole demeanour changed – suddenly he wasn’t just a boy going by the name of ‘Curtis Wilder’, he _was_ _‘_ Curtis Wilder’.

He stood up slowly and his whole posture smoothed out like a wave travelling up his body until he was completely and elegantly poised. His full height embraced. Every muscle was held taut and controlled, but it looked like he was seemingly relaxing them all at the same time – with his shoulders dropped to accentuate his long neck and sharp, could-cut-glass jaw line. His eyes smouldering and dark as he held his head high in natural fearlessness. A devilish smirked played against his lips. He demanded attention and he wasn’t even making a single noise. He wasn’t even doing anything, he was just _being_.

Mickey gulped. Torn between feeling so intimidated he wanted to look away but being so mesmerized he couldn’t.

Albetro’s eyes locked with Curtis’ and it was as if Mickey wasn’t even in the room. He strolled over to him, not offering Mickey one slightest hint of acknowledgement.

Curtis waltzed across the room, meeting Alberto half way. Their eyes didn’t leave each other for one moment. They stopped once in close proximity and Mickey felt like he could almost physically see the hundreds of words that were passing between them. Every single last one of them sexual.

He thought he’d been uncomfortable before, but now he could have been pushed into a pit of fucking venomous snakes and he’d have been more relaxed.

“And you are?” Alberto questioned letting his eyes trail slowly and shamelessly up and down the redhead.

“Curtis Wilder, Sir” He spoke like a promise, his voice deeper now than it had been before. For a flinching moment Mickey wanted to correct him because he was ‘Sir’. Everyone, Curtis included, had been calling him Sir all day and Mickey had started to grow fond of the formality. Only then he realised that in fact Alberto was the true ‘Sir’ around here. Fuck that, he was the bloody _master_.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr Wilder.” He extended his hand.

The man took it, only he didn’t shake it like both Alberto and Mickey were expecting. A good handshake in their industry was a staple form of greeting. No, he lent down and kissed it softy.

He kissed his fucking hand.

Mickey’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

He looked up from where he was lent over, Albtero’s hand still in his, his tone softly seductive, “Please,” He straightened back up, “Call me Curtis.”

Alberto considered him for a moment, and looked very pleased indeed smiling at the boy with that smile of his that Mickey had grown to associate with him seeing something he wanted.

Mickey’s legs kicked into action as he practically ran over to where the two men stood to make his presence known and hoped to god he wasn’t about to almost experience live ass fucking for the second time in one day.

“Wilder here is one of the potential candidates for the job position.” He sound loudly and firmly enough that his bosses eyes did waver over to him.

Alberto inhaled slowly, “I can see that.” He replied, his eyes instantly back on the redhead who stood proudly letting his own eyes rack over Alberto.

“I can take you to meet the rest of them. They’re just at the end of the hall.”

“I think I’d rather stay here, Mickey.” He said moving closer to Curtis. As if the space between them wasn’t small enough already.

“Perhaps I can keep you company?” The escort asked almost innocently, but the way he raised one eyebrow suggested otherwise.

Now, apparently, it was Alberto’s turn to be forward. He reached out taking the back of the boys head in one hand and wrapped his fingers in the soft red waves of his hair. It brought the two only inches apart. Their bodies brushing against each other.

Mickey glared at his fingers curling in Wilder’s hair. The hair Mickey been eyeing nonstop since he had meet the boy. His stomach tightened.

“Perhaps you should.”

Mickey shuffled on the spot biting into his lip ravenously. He was about to taste blood any second.

Curtis leaned in then tilting his head and for one horrific moment Mickey thought he was going to kiss him, but instead he leaned over to Alberto’s ear. Brushing his lips against it and murmuring something so softly it was inaudible to Mickey.

He had felt relieved that he didn’t have to view them kissing until he heard Alberto sniggering darkly to himself about whatever the fuck Wilder had just whispered. The boy pulled back slightly, and let out his own chuckle.

It wasn’t the same laugh he had shared with Mickey earlier. His eyes didn’t close, and his body didn’t shake. That laugh was uncontainable. This one was controlled and purposeful.

Alberto had removed his hand from his hair. But now Curtis’ hand rested on the man’s stomach from when he’d leaned into whisper.

Alberto turned to Mickey then. And it was about fucking time because he was on the verge of leaving.

“This one. I want this one.”

His words didn’t register at first and Mickey looked at him blankly. It wasn’t until Curtis also turned to look at Mickey for the first time since Alberto had entered the room that the words sank in.

“You what?” he stuttered out.

The redhead and Mickey shared the briefest look then, and Mickey thought he caught the faintest of genuine smiles. One that wasn’t Curtis. One that was of the boy from before, when it had been just the two of them. But he blinked and there was nothing there, only Curtis with his stupid smirk. Maybe he had imagined it.

“I choose Curtis.”

“You don’t want to meet any of the other candidates there are plenty of–” He spoke hurried his voice rising but Alberto cut him off.

“I’ve made my decision. And that is final.”  


 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t take as long as Mickey expected it would to break the news to the other candidates, let their agencies know what had happened (well not exactly what had happened. Just that the position wasn’t available anymore), and that they were sorry for the inconvenience of sending out their escorts and to finally arrange for company taxi’s to take them all home.

That wasn’t what took long. What was taking long was for Mickey to adjust to what had happened.

But surprisingly he didn’t actually feel angry – his go to emotion when anything didn’t go his way. Instead he just felt disheartened. Today had been a chance for him to prove himself, and he hadn’t even gotten the chance. He may have been nervous as hell, but he’d wanted to do it – to prove that he could. He had put so much effort into the organisation of the whole day, to make sure everything run smoothly. Put some much effort into _himself_. To be the polished, tough, take no shit businessman.

That had all been ruined. By a red head with a wicked smile...and according to Alberto’s reaction, a wicked tongue too.

Claude arrived to pick them up. Them as in Mickey, Alberto. And the third wheeling Curtis Wilder.

Claude opened the limo door for them and Mickey trudged in, Redhead behind him. Just as Alberto was following behind a loud buzzing emitted from him, he looked confused for the briefest second before his face relaxed and he held up a finger as if to say ‘one moment’ and pulled out his ringing phone from his breast pocket.

He moved back out of the car to answer it outside and Mickey heard his faint voice say “Hello” before Claude closed the limo door. Leaving the two boys alone.

Mickey sat on one of the seats on the side, and Curtis sat on one of the back ones. Mickey was content with the distance between them, liking his personal space.

For the rest of the time spent at the hotel the escort had been the Curtis Wilder of dark looks, and flirtatious comments, of light touches and cheeky grins any moment that Alberto had been around. And he had been around the whole time.

Mickey thought that maybe that was the real him anyway, hardly remembering the boy he had locked eyes with in the boardroom. The boy he had walked in on in the bathroom. The boy in the interview.

But when he glanced over at him in the yellow glow of the limo lights, aspects of that boy had slipped through. He was slouching for one. And his eyes were softer. His mouth also held firmly closed, compared to way he had kept his lips parted slightly around Alberto all afternoon.

“I get why they call it a stage name now. That was quite the show back there.” Mickey said, in that same serious cold tone he had used before his boss had walked in on their interview. He didn’t know why he slipped into that same manner, but he accepted it.

“And you were quite the audience.” The redhead replied easily.

The limo door flew open and Alberto pushed himself in, interrupting for the second time that day.

Though this time Mickey was pleased. The boys comment didn’t sit well with him. It made his pulse pound uneasily. Mickey didn’t know what he was trying to suggest, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

They travelled back to the offices in silence. Alberto’s hand resting on Curtis’ knee the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now things are really starting to kick off!  
> Hoped you enjoyed the chapter, it's quite a lot longer than the first two, and a lot more did actually happen!  
> This was my form of procrastinating instead of revising oops :/  
> Let me know what you think, would love to hear your feedback and reactions :)


	4. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It ain’t that hard, boy. I want you to take him under your wing here, show him the ropes. Teach him the rules. All that shit I pay you to do. I’m unable to have Curtis in my presence every minute of the day, and so I entrust him to you.”

“He’s a redhead? That’s seriously all you’re gonna say? I already fucking knew that you assface.” Mandy exclaimed.

The day before Alberto had picked out his male escort. Correction, he had gate crashed Mickey’s thoroughly planned and almost executed job applicant day and rashly demanded the male escort he wanted despite all the pressure he had imposed on Mickey to carefully handpick one himself though a series of tasks, tests and interviews. But nope. That had all gone to shit because Alberto had changed his mind. Fuck Alberto. And fuck Curtis Wilder for ruining everything.

“Yeah I dunno, Mandy, I wasn’t fucking inspecting the guy.” Mickey shrugged a little too defensively as he leaned back to perch against Mandy’s desk.

“Well wasn’t that your job?”

“Whatever, you gonna get off my ass already?”

Mandy was strutting about her office preparing for the long day ahead. Her heels clicked and clacked around him as she rushed about. They didn’t have long until their work day officially began.

“Not until you tell me about him.”

Mickey threw up his hands, “Christ, why do you care so much?”

“Because it’s juicy that’s why. A male escort strutting around the place, why wouldn’t I care?!”

“Because he’s fucking my boss. That’s a good enough reason to put it out your mind _completely._ ” Mickey physically cringed. The mental images enough to make him want to vomit.

“uh gross,” Mandy mumbled, twisting her finger in her hair as she stopped to face him. “But he’s getting paid to do that, it doesn’t mean he enjoys it.”

“Something tells me that’s not true.”

“Oh really?” She challenged.

Mickey nodded with a sharp eyebrow raise as he thought back to Curtis’s behaviour yesterday in front of Alberto. The way he had hung on his every word. The longing glances and provocative gestures he had made at him. If that was acting than the boy deserved an Oscar.

“Really.” And that was all he was going to say on the matter because honestly he really couldn’t care less about his bosses sex life with a thirty years younger asshole. It just put Mickey off his lunch that Alberto was actually paying someone the same age as Mickey to get him off in some desperate need of stress relief. It made Mickey consider what he it would be like if he was in Curtis’s position, and he was messing about with an almost fifty year old. Ew.

It wasn’t the sex, or even the paying bit. Mickey had accepted all that. He had been around long enough to be witness to Alberto’s numerous love affairs, relationship scandals and mild use of sex workers. It was the age thing. He didn’t believe in love, but he could mostly understand that if the delusion of ‘love’ was involved things such as age would fall away; you would make do, because your feelings for each other would bypass those obstacles. But this situation was the furthest thing away from that. Did Alberto not feel like he was in the wrong using this guy? This _boy_. How did he not feel even mildly guilty? What was worse was that some part of Mickey suspected that Curtis’s young age added to his sexual appeal for Aberto.

“I can’t wait to meet him.” Mandy sighed dreamily.

“Don’t get your hopes up too much or you’re gonna get really fucking disappointed. He ain’t nothing special; I can tell you that now.” Mickey grumbled.

Mandy didn’t reply to his comment. She carried on with her blissful daydreaming, “Curtis Wilder. I mean what a name! Does that not just scream sex,” she laughed to herself, joining Mickey and perching on the desk beside him. “I guess that is the point.”

Mickey side eyed her unamused. She stared back at him smirking before punching him in the arm half-heartedly. He waited a second before nudging her with his shoulder, giving it a little more oomph.

Mandy was, and probably always would be the toughest bitch Mickey would ever know. She was a ruthless take-no-shit fighter with so much love trapped within her it had no place to go and no direction to take. He often wondered what it must be like for his sister, having so much love in her heart and no one to give it to. That must be painful. She was a burning star of endless force and potential and Mickey felt like the only person alive who really noticed that.

She looked at him with fake alarm before she cracked her knuckles like the badass she was and punched him in the arm again this time with full momentum. Mickey struggled not to stumble off the desk or grasp at his burning arm. But she just snorted, laughing at him openly. Mickey allowed her and only her this simple pleasure. She deserved simple things, easy things. Things their childhood hadn’t always allowed them.

Suddenly she gasped softy, “What’s his real name?”

Startled by her rapid return to the redhead he kept trying to forget, Mickey moaned with his held titled back, “Hell if I know.”

“Uh Mickey you’re so shit at this.”

“At what?!”

“Bitching. Gossiping. Digging up dirt.” She complained seizing up an eraser from her desk and tossing it at him.

It hit him lightly in the stomach before dropping to the floor with a soft thud.

“I work for the biggest drug smuggling corporation in Chicago. I think I fucking well know a thing or two about digging up to dirt.”

“Then go and get some shithead.”

“What if I don’t want to? What if it’s none of my business? Which actually, it isn’t.”

Mandy pouted at him with her big blue eyes, that way that inevitably always got him in the palm of her hand doing whatever she bloody wanted.

He was so goddamn whipped.

 

* * *

 

Mickey was having his mid-morning coffee in the break room when one Curtis Wilder breezed in, instantly sending chills down Mickey’s spin the second he noticed him. The room filled with thick and dense quietness that spread to every corner of it, hunting out any form of life, consuming it and shadowing it into silence.

Everyone’s eyes were on the new boy. And no one was being welcoming. Cold hard gazes pieced at the redhead across the room and for such a confident fucker he seemed to shrink an inch or two under them, running a timid hand through his hair.

If it was anyone else, Mickey may have felt bad for them. First days at work were just like first days at school. Everyone sussing out the new meat, figuring out where they stood with them. Their weaknesses. Their strengths. Tearing them apart piece by piece watching maliciously to see if they sank under the pressure. Or to see if they could hold you own. If they floated. Or if they drowned.

Mickey had always been a floater. He could fucking well stand his own. Ain’t nobody was gonna push him about if he had a thing, or a fist, to say about it.

Mickey had only known the boy standing before him for day but he had an inkling that the kid could fight just as dirty given the chance.

There was just something about him, something Mickey couldn’t get a handle one. With Instinct and years of practice in the Southside he was a good judge of character. And something about Redhead had alarm bells going off in Mickey’s head. He just didn’t know quite why yet.

The escort’s eyes scanned the room for a clear place to park his ass.

He wasn’t going to find one that wasn’t already being dominated by some work place clique. They were very territorial here at Red House Royal and Curtis wasn’t going to be let into anyone’s pack any time soon. In their eyes, he was the prey brought home to slaughter by the vicious Pack Leader, Alberto. He was Alberto’s meat, he was Alberto’s kill. Everyone else was hands off and barriers up – no getting involved.

It was just his fucking luck then that the green eyes, halfway through scanning the room, landed directly on Mickey. A comfortable smile settled on the boy’s features with the reorganisation of a familiar face.

Somebody up there amongst the clouds must have really hated him, because before he knew it Curtis lost-pup Wilder was parking that perky ass in the conveniently empty seat next to Mickey. What Curtis didn’t know was that that seat was _always_ free. _Intentionally_ free. Not because Mickey was a reject here – but because he claimed, no he demanded, his space.

Mickey was a lone wolf. That was that.

“So...” Curtis drew out. Mickey didn’t look at him; instead he sipped idly on his coffee. Keeping his lip rested on the top of the mug between sips, letting the steam drifting off the top to warm his cheeks. “You got a name I’m allowed call you? Or are you hell bent on sticking with Sir?”

Mickey waited before answering, unsure if he was going to or not. But something got the better of him and he succumbed. Hostility distinct in his voice, “Yeah I am. Why the fuck not? Last time I checked I was still in a position of authority over you.” He shoved back.

The boy inhaled through his nose softly and Mickey was suddenly agitated that he’d done something to produce such a reaction, but before he could dwell on what he’d just said the escort was speaking again.

“Well firstly you’re not in charge of me anymore. Yesterday you were the man interviewing me for a job, but today you are a college. We both are working under the same man now and that makes us equals.”

“Ok smartass but the thing is I work directly under Alberto as his right hand man and you work literally under him as his whore.”

The redhead didn’t say anything to that but Mickey could see out of his peripheral vision a blurry image of the man looking down at his hands.

He knew his words were harsh, but he didn’t have time to care about the impact of them on his latest ‘college’. So what if he was being bluntly and painfully honest, he owed this boy nothing.

“I’m no whore.” The redhead replied jaw tight and the plains of his face and neck twisted in annoyance.

Mickey brushed his thumb on his lip dismissively “Whatever.” He muttered.

Curtis bit down on his lip and his eyelids slid shut momentarily, it looked like he was trying to drown some on coming storm. It startled Mickey in a way he didn’t expect - watching the redhead pull the control over his own body reminded him of how often he had to do the same. Mickey was left to stare at the boys slowly reddening bottom lip as he chewed on it.

“So you got a final answer to my question?” He opened his eyes again and Mickey looked away quickly, “What are you, Sir? Lord? Your Highness?”

“hmm”

“Dick?”

“You refer to me as that and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Curtis smirked and it reminded Mickey of the way a child looked when it disobeyed its parents with a sense of achievement.

“So what’s it going to be?”

“Persistent little fucker aren’t you.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if you answered my question.”

He threw up his free hand, “Ah for fucks sake alright you can call me Mickey!”

Curtis nodded slowly as if he was mulling over the answer but that still present smirk on his face was a sign enough that he’d gotten the answer he desired.

Mickey regretted giving in almost instantly, hating that he had let Curtis play him into getting his way. He wouldn’t be falling for that again now that he knew his technique was just plain old persistence.

“And I can call you–” Mickey started quickly.

But Curtis interrupted confidently, “Whatever you want.”

“What?” Mickey spluttered.

“You said yesterday you only said things once, that you didn’t repeat yourself. And you don’t have to. I remember what you said yesterday very clearly.”

Worriedly Mickey racked his brain hurriedly trying to remember just exactly what he had said.

Luckily, Curtis offered him the answer. “That you will refer to us escorts however you want. So I just assumed that that was a thing that was gonna carry on.”

 _Ah_. Mickey remembered then and fought against the proud smile that twitched on his lips for his past actions. That had been so bold of him.

“You damn right it is.” Mickey raised his brows with a firm nod. He set down his coffee on table, shrugging nonchalantly, “Like I could remember whatever dumb name you wanted to go by anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He replied tightly.

Mickey gave Curtis the once over, not allowing his eyes to linger on his green ones unnecessarily before turning back to his coffee. Mickey could feel the effects of the caffeine prickling under his skin. “We done here?”

Obliging to Mickey’s very clear suggestion of leaving Curtis stood up turning away in the direction of the door. Before he made it out he threw over his shoulder some civil parting words with a tight twitch of his lip, “See your around, Mickey.”

He sighed with relief content to be left to himself and the company of his own thoughts again. Only now Mickey couldn’t retrieve that sense of comfort from his solitude that he’d had early. He felt as if a shadowed presence remained in Curtis’ wake and he felt cold like he’d been drenched in ice water with the thought.

Mickey had never thought about how someone said his name, but for the rest of his break session as he finished off his coffee, he thought about the way Curtis had said it.

 

* * *

 

“I need to pop down to the pharmacy if that’s ok man?” Claude inquired smiling apologetically.

“Sure, dude. No problem.” Mickey replied swatting his hand as if to bat away Claude’s concern.

“Cool, thanks.” And he practically skipped off in the direction of the drug store leaving Mickey to trail behind, trying to catch up.

“What do you need to get?” Mickey questioned, and although he was friends with Claude he didn’t particularly care too much but he thought it would be the nice concerned thing to do.

“Ah I’m just in need of some stuff for my allergies, nothing serious.”

“Ok.” He answered not really sure what to say to that.

They walked in silence the rest of the way which was fine with Mickey as Claude was a man of many words, but the words were always ones of importance. Words with an aim, with a purpose. Mickey liked that, the guy didn’t feel the need to meaninglessly chat with him which meant when he did talk it always going to be something of significance. Not just talking for the sake of talking. Which happened to be a particular pet peeve of Mickey’s. They both understood that about each other, and it made their silences comfortable. Perhaps that’s what made it easier for Mickey to fall into the label of being ‘friends’ with Claude. That easiness and the sense of being comfortable.

Mickey stood behind the lanky boy as he scanned the isles of the drug store. He fidgeted aimlessly with the buttons on his jacket. Then with the lobe of his ear. Then back to his buttons.

“So pretty boy signed his confidentiality papers then?” Claude started as he inspected the label on a small bottle of circular tablets.

“Pretty boy?”

“Yeah. Pretty boy. Ginger muff.” He smiled loosely, putting the bottle back on the shelf.

“Ginger muff?!”

“He’s like a little ginger muffin, dude.”

“One that you’d be happy to bite I’m sure.” Mickey scoffed bashfully averting his eyes to just look pointlessly around the room.

“I wouldn’t say no.” Claude shrugged with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Mickey made a disgusted face sticking his tongue out with a dramatic gagging sound.

“Just because you don’t swing that way doesn’t mean you can’t openly appreciate beauty, Mickey.”

Mickey tried not to let any form of reaction flash across his face. Breathing lightly to keep his features composed. He really did not need to give anything about his private life away to this guy. Claude would be all over that – he’d be goddamn ecstatic. Trying to force his all loving, all accepting opinions onto Mickey – like he hadn’t heard them enough in the time he’d already know the guy.

“Well, if there was any beauty or whatever bullshit you are talking about to appreciate in the first place.”

Claude passed him a look that said _shut the fuck up_ , but the guy was to full of that polite, peace and love bullshit to ever say that to Mickey’s face.

“So, you didn’t answer my question. Did he sign the confidentiality papers?”

The papers Claude spoke of insured that said ginger muffin would not open his fucking trap about anything he saw, knew, heard, touched or smelt about the place he worked at. No information would be spread to anyone outside of work. In fact the agreement meant he basically was not allowed to speak about his work with Alberto to anyone. That ginger nut was not going to blow up the whole operation...even if he was blowing something else. Not that that gave him any right to stick his nose in business that did not concern him. Illegal or otherwise. He would do well to remember that, if he didn’t Mickey could only guess what would happen to him...

Not that he was truly aware of the drug trade his client controlled anyway. To the outside world Red House Royal was simply a packaging and adversity business. Of course they kept the lowest profile they could, without being low enough to be shady. Their heads of board would attend charity galas, and invest in smaller business to keep up their image. To let themselves be known, but not known enough for people to grow a big interest of get suspicious off. It was a fine balance to maintain.

“Yeah, signed them yesterday. After you dropped us back at the offices, Alberto was breathing down his neck, literally, to sign the bloody things.”

“He question why?”

The two walked over to the desk, Claude having collected a few packets and bottles into his basket.

“Nope. Seemed pretty fucking content with the whole charade.”

“The poor guy is probably use to it. It’s a tough industry, sex work. He’s probably had to put up with a great deal in his time.”

“Yeah, his three whole years.” Mickey exaggerated his sarcasm with a gobsmacked expression.

“Lay off him, dude. He’s just trying make his way in the world.” Claude pressed, his ever constant smile slightly fading and although Mickey meant what he had said he felt instantly guilty of almost wiping the boy of his smile. It was like a token part of his character.

Claude placed his basket on the desk, turning his attention away from Mickey and to the small tanned man behind the counter who hurried over to serve him. The man pulled the items out of the basket and the three of them stood in silence as he scanned them through on the register.

Suddenly the phone on the counter rang with an annoyingly loud buzz, startling the little man. _Sorry_ he mouthed at Claude, who waved him off politely as the man answered the phone.

“Hello, Brook’s Pharmacy. How can I help you?” The man spoke in a thick Canadian accent and then paused. “Ian! How nice to hear from you. What can I do for you son?” A long pause and the man looked honestly happy to hear from the customer. “Yes of course, I will have them waiting on the side for you whenever you are ready. Are you ok for lithium?” Mickey checked his watch impatiently. “You picked up your antipsychotics last time you were here, yes.” Claude turned to rest his hip against the counter, taking the hit that this may take longer than expected. “Ian, how are you? You looking after yourself?...Good. I’m glad to hear it....Ok, sure. No problem, take care.” And with that the man finally put the phone down and Mickey held back a heavy sigh.

“Sorry about that.” The Canadian said turning back to them.

“No problem.” Claude replied.

Mickey glanced down at the simple allergy tablets on the counter and his mind mulled over what he had heard the pharmacist say; _lithium, antipsychotics_. Claude’s small allergy problem could hardly compare to what the guy on the phone must be dealing with. That kind of medication was for some big time issues. Mickey sent a small little prayer out that he and Mandy were thankfully healthy, neither of them dealing with any of that kinda heavy shit. Surprisingly enough, after the fucked up childhood they had had. Christ, some people really had it hard.

 

* * *

 

Mickey knocked rapidly on Alberto’s office door, after having received a text a few minutes ago summoning him.

He heard a gruff _enter_ coming from the room, and although it was in a tone Mickey heard rarely from Alberto, he knew it was him speaking – even if his voice did sound strangely out of character. It made him nervous for why he had been asked to meet him in the first place.

Pushing the door open warily Mickey was meet with an unwelcome sight: Curtis and Alberto snuggled up in crook of the leather couch their bodies intertwined in each other. Oldie was sitting normally, shoulder blades pushed against the back of the couch, feet placed firmly on the ground. Curtis however sat side on, his shoulder pressing into the back of couch as his feet rested over Alberto’s lap, his chest flush against his side, his head titled into his neck as he sucked and nibbled at the skin there. Alberto’s arm draped around the boys shoulder, holding him close.

Mickey could hear light sucking noises. Holy fuck.

He jerked his head to the floor avoiding all eye contact with either man, his arms held tight at his sides as he resisted the urge to plunge his nails into his thigh. Or to vomit.

“Ah, Mickey.” His boss perked up.

Mickey uncertainly raised his gaze to meet his, if only out of respect. He happily would have jumped out the window to escape this situation if he wasn’t in the presence of one of the most powerful people in Chicago. Damn Alberto and all his fucking supremacy.

“Yes, boss?” He questioned his eyes darting to the corner of the room and then back to one of Alberto’s hands that was stroking Curtis neck casually.

“I got a task for you.” He mumbled learning closer to nuzzle his cheek against Curtis’s.

“Yes.” Mickey replied sharply just wanting him to fucking spit it out so he could get the hell out of there.

“I need you to take care of Curtis for me.”

Mickey’s mind faulted for a split second and he actually let his sight rest on the two before him. That was when Curtis finally stilled in his devouring of Alberto’s neck and twisted to look up at the dark haired boy upon hearing his name.

But Alberto didn’t seem very happy about that, letting out a whine deep in his throat. A fucking _whine_. He brought his hand up to nudge Curtis’ head back down to his neck, the boy obeyed easily returning to his pleasure making. When he noticed his tongue flick out to run against a vein under the Italian man’s jaw, Mickey’s skin pricked alight.

“Right...” He answered seeking further explanation.

“Take him under your wing, if you will.”

Mickey resisted the urge to point out the fact that Curtis was very happily tucked up under Alberto’s wing that very second. It was all so devastatingly intermit even the back of Mickey’s neck was gathering small droplets of sweat and he would give his left leg to be anywhere but there.

“How so, Sir?” he questioned even though he knew he sounded like an idiot. It was not very often that Mickey pushed the man further; he just did what he was ordered upon the first command. So what if it was vague, or hard or just plain old fucking ridiculous? He just had to do it anyway.

Alberto’s trailing hand on the young boy’s neck stilled and he let out an annoyed sigh. He slowly untangled himself from his escort. The young boy withdrew slowly and laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back to lie down on the couch. Little shit thought he owned the place or something.

His boss stood throwing Curtis an apologetic look.

“It ain’t that hard, boy. I want you to take him under your wing here, show him the ropes. Teach him the rules. All that shit I pay you to do. I’m unable to have Curtis in my presence every minute of the day, and so I entrust him to you.”

Mickey nodded stiffly every inch of him screaming with frustration. This could not be happening to him. _This could not actually be happening._ He was being appointed as a fucking babysitter?! Was Alberto shitting with him right now? He almost expected Alberto to start laughing suddenly and tell him he was joking. Because well, Mickey was an intelligent, assertive drug dealing businessman and now his talents were being wasted on _babysitting?_

“You’re the only person I can trust to do this properly, Mickey. You know this company like the back of your hand. And you know me the same way. I know you won’t fuck this up for me.”

Well Christ, he fucking might if he took a shot gun to Wilder’s goddamn head. God knows he wanted to every minute he saw the man.

Alberto walked closer to Mickey then, his hard stare burning down on him and Mickey nodded harder.

“All Curtis related business will be your business. You hear me? I want you to look after that boy.” He stated gesturing back at Curtis on the couch with his thumb.

“Yes, Sir.” Mickey replied firmly this time and he even sounded convincing. He followed Alberto’s gesturing hand to the redhead, who was watching the scene before him intently. His shirt had risen ever so slightly from having lain down; Mickey didn’t allow himself to look.

Alberto grinned with his teeth as he ran his hands down the front of his suit, straightening out any imaginary creases. Mickey could, for the first time ever, smell a faint whiff of after shave drifting off the man. It was nutty and almost bitter. Mickey’s skin crawled, repulsed by the idea that he was actually trying to impress Curtis.

“That will be all Mickey.” He spun back round to face the couch, and the awaiting redhead, dismissing Mickey without a second glance.

That was all he needed to flee the scene happily, hurrying out the room as fast as his little legs could carry him.

 

* * *

 

The crisp light blue sky stretching endlessly over the skyscrapers and buildings of the city, the commotion of life passing him by every way he turned, the subtle sweet breeze drifting through Mickey’s hair,– it was all a welcome distraction.

That was until a tall, toned, ginger, green eyed monster strolled out of the sliding building doors of Red House Royal.

Could Mickey not catch a fucking break for even more than a second? Though, truthfully, he had managed to avoid the boy for the rest of the day, hiding out in his own office and not going to the break room when he was free. He also had the luxury of his own private bathroom joined onto his office so he didn’t have to worry about bumping into him in the toilets. Probably catch him trying to get a quick fuck again anyway.

Mickey would have just pushed off the wall he was leaning on and left if he hadn’t been waiting for Mandy to come out so they could go grab some dinner together. He considered walking off anyway, and coming back once Curtis had disappeared, but he didn’t make a decision fast enough because the boy had already spotted him and was walking over.

Thankfully it wasn’t the same model strut he did around Alberto, if he had whipped that one out Mickey might had strangled him.

“Hey Mickey.” He said, hoisting his shoulder bag higher and throwing him that upwards flick of the chin that all men adopted as a form of hello. Only it was different when Curtis used it, it didn’t feel as common as that action that all guys used. And judging by the twist in Mickey’s gut that it caused, he certainly wasn’t having the usual reaction.

Mickey returned it though, glancing in his direction but didn’t say anything.

The boy didn’t seem too bothered by the unfriendliness but he did stop where he was, not coming any closer to leave a decent amount of space between the two.

“You, uh, waiting for someone?”

“Yup.” Mickey replied slowly before sealing his mouth determinedly. Three seconds passed by. “Not you. If that’s what you were wondering. I may have to look after you, but it’s after work hours now so I’m officially off duty.”

The boy let out a gruff laugh that didn’t actually sound that amused. “I can also look after myself just fine. I can assure you I don’t need you to walk me home or anything.” And with that last comment his voice lightened slightly to a more teasing tone.

“Thank fuck.”

“Who are you waiting for then?”

“Mandy. Going out for dinner.” Mickey didn’t enlighten the boy as to who Mandy was because he didn’t think the ginger was entitled to that information about his life. He wanted to maintain that distance between them, the physical one that was occurring then on busy sidewalk, but also the metaphorical one. It was none of the boys business who Mandy was.

Curtis looked surprised for a moment, leaning back to fix Mickey with a confused expression but recovered quickly returning to a nonchalant attitude as his shoulders relaxed and his brow straightened out.

“She works here?” He questioned tilting his head back to the building he had just exited.

“Yeah. She’s Benigno’s PA.”

“Ah right. I don’t think I talked to her today...or maybe I did. I dunno there were a lot of new faces.”

“Yeah your tongue was a bit preoccupied with other activities to be talking.”

Curtis scoffed a laugh. Mickey smirked at his own wit, folding his arms and watching the traffic in front of them speed on past, not wanting to see Curtis’ expression. He then felt the boy edge closer and his shockingly coloured hair become more glaringly obvious in his peripheral vision. His heart beat picked up its pace.

“BJ jokes are kinda your thing huh?” He semi-whispered, which would explain why he had moved closer – not wanting any of the presdistrains shuffling around them to overhear. Nice to know he was concerned for the citizen.

“You just provide so many opportunities for me to laugh at you.”

“Yeah. You sure are laughing real hard.” He shot back sarcastically with a tilt of his head as he eyes trailed up and down Mickey’s stiffening body, inspecting every inch of his being.

“It’s a deep cold cackle from the pit of my black fucking soul.”

Curtis moved closer still and Mickey caught the horrific sent of Alberto’s aftershave on him. It reminded him of smelling Benigno’s aftershave on Mandy the other day in the cafe. He mentally punched himself for not breeching that subject with her yet. He had been so caught up in the ever growing pile of shit on his doorstep he had forgotten about the clearly worse and possibly sky high one that was on hers.

“I dunno about a black soul, you look pretty harmless to me.”

Mickey jerked his head to face Curtis then and stared deep into the pools of green that linked with his.

“Watch yourself, firecrotch.”

An unusual expression passed across the boys face at the sound of the crude nickname but he didn’t break eye contact with Mickey. He wasn’t even blinking, just staring intensely back at him his lips held tightly together. Mickey’s mind was a green void and no coherent thoughts were processing.

But then thankfully after what felt like years, the redhead shifted his head to face the black reflective glass of the building that Mickey was leaning against. The boy sucked on the inside of his cheek and his cheekbone become glaringly noticeable.

“Oh I am,” Mickey turned also to look into the dark glass where he noticed Curtis now staring at his own reflection. The boy smiled at himself like he was in the company of a good friend, his reflection smiled back. Mickey watched warily the real Curtis, and the reflected Curtis as the two twins stared each other down. “And the view isn't fucking bad.”

“Being an aragont, vain, prick is kinda your thing huh?” Mickey snapped, using the boys dig from earlier.

Curtis just shrugged carelessly and Mickey couldn’t figure out if that was because he agreed or because he didn’t care what Mickey thought. Maybe both.

Clenching his jaw tightly Mickey felt the heat gather in his biceps and fits. He felt empty inside and his whole body was so tense his legs trembled. His animal instincts started to seep into his mind, clotting out his human ability to reason. The smug look on the boy’s face was definitely not helping. He thought back to that concept of fight or flight. He had always been so sure he knew what he was. A goddamn fighter. It was a part of who he was. It was in his DNA. But, in that moment, for the first time in what must have been years, the switch in Mickey flipped. Normally the heat urged every impulse within him to lash out and strike and kick and punch with cruel and viscious intention. But not then, then the red that clouded his vision wasn’t one of anger...it was one of danger. Not a thirst for blood. But a warning light. A stop sign. Stop. Stop. Stop. In that moment Mickey didn’t feel like the wolf, the lone wolf he thought he was. Instead he felt like the prey, the fightened deer, the startled rabbit. This itch in his legs wasn’t to leap forward, but to be leap _back_. It wasn’t even as if he had made a decision to swap, it just happened and nothing in that second scared Mickey more than that. Not the deep green pupils penetrating into his skull. Not the ever present flutter of fear that Alberto held over him. Not the worry for his sister. None of them.

And he did it, he carried out the option he never saw as an option. _Flight._ He flew, spinning round with a new found momentum and stalked off down the street trying to disguise his heavy panting.

A voice carried over his shoulder, “Have a good date, Mickey!” But he didn’t look back.

He had fled from Curtis Wilder, just a stupid boy, and that felt worse than shitty. It made him feel weak.

He wondered sacredly if this was going to be the first of many changes the man brought about in Mickey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a little longer then expected! I've had a lot on my plate :(  
> I hope it was worth the wait and they you all enjoyed it!  
> Let me know what you think, love hearing from you all :)  
> tumblr: http://mickeyloves-ian.tumblr.com/  
> I'll post about upcoming chapters and release dates on there if you are interested!


	5. Childs Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The last thing Mickey expected to see on a Friday afternoon was one very angry, very fierce Curtis Wilder thundering into his office. His feet thudded against the carpet with each step as he neared his desk, “What the fuck is your problem with me?”"

 

 For _two_ weeks Mickey slept restlessly.

 _Fourteen_ days of being in a near constant state of exhaustion.

 _Three hundred and thirty six_ hours of hell.

And if he was being truthfully, painfully honest with himself, (which he wasn’t often, because let’s be real Mickey Milkovich was the definition of conceal, don’t feel) only _one_ carrot motherfucker was to blame.

For every second of those two weeks Curtis fucking Wilder had been a huge goddamn problem. The burn on the back of his neck. The twist of disgust in his gut. The slow increase of nail shaped bruise marks on his thigh. It was all his goddamn problem.

And he knew it, he knew it in the way his toes curled in his presence and the way his eyes fluttered away from his being that he _hated_ him. He hated Curtis Wilder and he hated the way he lounged about the building all the fucking time and the way he still tired everyday to relax with Mickey in the break room and the way he smirked at Alberto and the way the girls on the floor all seemed to find him charming. He hated the way his eyes followed Mickey around the room and the way he ate his food like he’d never seen or tasted anything so good in all his life, his eyes flickering closed after the first bite. He hated fucking all of it. His scarlet hair and his giraffe limbs and his pink chapped lips and those light green ocean eyes – and bloody hell those weird ass ginger freckles that had started appearing with all the exposure to the summer sun.

Maybe hate wasn’t even a strong enough word.

The only benefit to any of it was that with all this endlessly rage and frustration Mickey had pent up in him he had been spending a lot of time in the gym trying to burn it up. He needed that release. The feel of the impact against his knuckles as he beat down the punching bag, the pounding of his feet against the belt of the running machine, the strain in his muscles as he lifted three times his weight above his head. He had so much useless energy from all the heat burning around in his body day in and day out that working it off in the gym every evening was about the only thing stopping him from actually knocking out a certain redheaded person and not the red punch bag.

Working his body lifeless also helped with the wave of insomnia he had suddenly suffered. But only briefly.

Mickey hadn’t been out of shape before, he took pride in keeping himself fit and in shape, but these two weeks had really helped transform him. His arms and shoulder muscles had sharpened up, clearly prominent in and complimentary to the suits he wore to work. His stomach was now tauter and smoother under his shirt, his legs and back learn and he didn’t need to even flex too hard for the muscles to become distinct. Mandy had taken no time to notice the change, throwing him teasing comments whenever they hung out. Even Alberto had side eyed him curiously towards the end of the second week; though thankfully not in the sickeningly lustful way he stared as Curtis’s ass, just as if he was noticing a change.

On the first Monday of the third week he sat shuffling in a big dark wooden seat in Alberto’s office, Alberto himself sat in his even bigger, almost obnoxiously so, seat behind his desk. Mickey pulled his chair in closer; arrange himself in a comfortable fashion. Then he pulled out his small leather note book from his breast pocket, whipped out the pen resting behind his ear and flicked to a fresh page – poised at the ready.

“So, what’s new, boss?” he flicked his eyes up from where his pen hovered over the page.

Alberto drummed his fingers against the desk. The sound echoed around the quite room. “You know what, boy? I have a ton of shit to be dealing with every day. As I always do around this time. But you know Bengino locked down that Russian the other day? Wanted that name on our client list since the day I started here. Fuck. It feels fucking amazing to achieve, Mickey. To look around me and see all my success.” He spread his arms out in front of him like God looking across at his creation. Then he dropped then heavily to his sides and smiled to himself. “All this shit ton of work, but I feel...I feel fine.” He huffed through his nose, “Relaxed even!”

“That’s great, sir.” He replied trying to sound like he meant it.

“You know why?” He smiled again, it was a dirty smile. One that made Mickey’s skin crawl. “I know why. God, do I know why.”

“Got anything to do with that spankying new coffee machine?” Mickey joked, indicating the machine tucked nicely in the corner of the room atop its own special little podium.

“No, that just happens to be a result of it.”

He was one-hundred percent sure he knew the answer to his bosses question but remained silent and shrugged nonchalantly as if he couldn’t guess what it was making Alberto feel so happy.

“Curtis. That’s what. That boy...Jesus, he makes me feel _so good_.”

Mickey glanced down into his lap trying to hide the furious way he blushed. He tried not to think of the escort and Alberto together in that way, even though he had been witness to a handful of their sexually intimate moments, but on the whole he tried to view Curtis as a business partner, or a client, or even just a friend to Alberto – any other position that would relate to why he spent so much fucking time in his office with him. But honestly, it was hard to think that way when Alberto had to remind him so bloody often, he didn’t give a flying fuck how ‘good’ Curtis could do anything.

“Well, we hired him for a reason right.”

It hadn’t been a question, but Alberto was quick to answer it. “We most certainly did.”

“So,” Mickey restrained from sighing “What have you got for me?” He turned his attention back to his notebook that for preciously the past two weeks had been unnaturally empty. Its blank white pages glared up at him like a constant reminder of what had changed, of what had appeared to set of some sort of chain reaction into every element of his life. _Fucking Wilder._ Every day Mickey sat down with his boss to listen to him roll commands and task and favours off his tongue. Some that he would have to attend to immediately that day and others that would be an ongoing process. Sometimes Alberto just updated him on relevant information which he absorbed obediently to file somewhere in the back of his mind. However, as of late, with the new addition to their twosome Alberto had been lacking in work to give him. Whether this was because the man was forgetting to tell him, not telling him on purpose, or if there truly wasn’t that much work, Mickey didn’t know.

Alberto leaned back into his chair, stretching his hand out to drum his fingers against the desk again. “Oh today, Mickey. Well today I wanted your opinion on something.”

Mickey sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Yeah sure, Sir.”

“I want to take Curtis out in public.”

Mickey eyes widened before he could control himself and he’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “W-What?” He spluttered.

Alberto rubbed at his chin, that dark stubble still present there. “He’s an escort and so far he’s not escorted me _anywhere_.”

“Right...”

“I’m ready to go public with this.”

“With paying for sex?” Mickey said, the amusement in his voice a little too noticeable.

“No. NO. With, my relation to him. I have been studying him, Mickey. And I can tell you, he has been very impressive. He’s truly proved himself worthy of my trust by facing each small secret challenge I have set him with the correct response. Exceptional really, I can’t imagine any of those other airheads you interviewed even coming close to my Curtis. He carries out his job perfectly and I know, I just know that he will carry on doing so in the public eye.”

“Are you sure about this? Once you’ve come out, there’s no going back.” His own words resonated in some deep part of him, but he ignored the feeling. Pushing it down.

He learned forward tilting his chin down to look at Mickey with narrowed eyes. “I know what I want.”

“I know, Sir. But, you asked for my opinion and I think it’s a bad fucking idea.”

“Why?” He barked defensively.

Mickey dipped his head and shoulders, giving Alberto the sense of control he craved. He let a few second pass by before he answered. “Because we don’t know what the response from the media is going to be. Think about it, Curtis is going to get a lot of attention, what if it goes to his head? What if he enjoys it too much? That could make him an easy target to gain information from. Meaning he could slip up.”

“That’s what the confidentiality papers were put in place for.”

Not wanting to argue, he changed the direction of the conversation. “Ok, so say you did take him out. Where are you planning on going? The cinema? Bar? Meal?”

Alberto coughed a laugh into his hand. “No idiot, I have my own private cinema, and chiefs talented enough to put most of these knock-off restaurants out of business.”

“Right. Of course.”

“The Greenwell Event.”

Mickey’s head jerked up in surprise and he felt his pulse startle into a rapid pace. “Are you fucking serious?” He asked, his voice coming out higher than its usual pitch.

“Do I look like I’m anything but?” Alberto fixed him with his deadpan expression.

“Why the Greenwell Event?” He asked, his suspicions getting the better of him.

“It’s the next upcoming occasion.” Alberto shrugged but Mickey saw through his casual demeanour instantly, there were very clearly ulterior motives at play.

“We’re doing a job that night. That’s the reason we are showing up in the first place.”

“I know, boy.”       

“Curtis will be a drag on the operation.”

“Not if he is involved.”

“ _what?!_ ” At that Mickey pen dropped from his fingers and it clattered against the arm of the chair before landing silently against the thick cream carpet. The hand the pen had been held in remained suspended in the air.

Alberto sighed grudgingly, rubbing the back of his neck lazily. “Don’t get your panties in a twist I’m not going to do that. He needs to remain separate from that part of my life.”

“Yes he fucking well does.” Mickey grumbled loudly.

Alberto shot him a stern look and Mickey snapped his lips together to stop himself saying anything else stupid.

“I think it would be a good way to introduce the world to him, and introduce him to my world.”

“In front of all the preying eyes of clients?”

“Why not?”

Mickey was the one to shrug this time, holding back his true feelings, “Okay. This is your call boss.”

They sat in silence for a moment and Mickey fumbled his notebook back into his pocket assuming they were done, but clearly Alberto could read him better then he was comfortable with.

“Come on, boy. Spit it out. You clearly have something to say.”

“I just...” He gulped and decided to just go for it, “I still think this is a bad fucking idea.”

When Alberto didn’t answer, Mickey stood up, excused himself, and slipped out the room.

 

* * *

 

To him, the name ‘Curtis’ didn’t suite the boy that was walking into the break room, his body relaxed with one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, the other resting casually at his side. A smoke was tucked behind his ear and his red mane was particularly dishevelled. And not for the first time, Mickey found himself pondering that question Mandy had asked him on Curtis’s first day of work, _what was his real name?_ He hadn’t heard anyone else refer to him as anything other than his stage name. Even Alberto. At least that helped him to assume that Alberto and the boy were keeping things professional, the last thing he needed was a whinny needy love sick whore chasing after his boss, or even worse, a whinny needy love sick Alberto. _Bloody hell._

Never the less, he felt curious, just for the sake of collecting information on the guy, which never hurt. Know your enemy, they did say.

Curtis made himself a cup of coffee while Mickey waited for the dreaded moment when he would sit down in that spare seat next to him. The moment that never failed to come. As long as the seat was free, which it always was, Curtis would sit in it. He feared the escort had claimed that as his official seat in the break room. That would be fucking terrible because there was no way in hell Mickey was changing his seat, he had six years on the guy when it came to the seating arrangements.

When the redhead sat down Mickey didn’t acknowledge him, only carried on looking down at his phone. He could feel his cheeks burning with the sense of the boys gaze on him. He didn’t like being stared at. Not by anyone, let alone the shithead causing him so much unrest.

He started to text away on his phone, hoping to give the idea that he really wasn’t up for any kind of interaction. Unfortunately that didn’t work.

“You texting your girlfriend?”

Mickey gave a gruff as a response. Not giving him an answer that said yes or no.

“I’m guessing the date went well then, huh?”

“Fucks it to you?” he snapped, and then because thinking of Mandy in that way made him actually want to vomit and he couldn’t have someone going around thinking of her like that, “And that wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“Ah I see. More a friends with benefits situation.”

Mickey practically gagged. “ _No._ ”

“Fuck buddies? You know, that’s a dangerous path to go down –”

“Please _stop_ talking.” he shot him his wide eyes to show just how deadly serious he was.

Curtis stifled a laugh his head falling to face the floor.

“Never, ever, _ever_ say anything like that again or I will actually knock your fucking lights out.”

Curtis lifted his hands up in surrender, “ok I got it.”

But the boy didn’t even appear threatened; he just looked amused which really made Mickey’s blood boil. He wanted to be taken seriously, not to be laughed at. His whole life he had worked on creating that demeanour. He’d needed that back in Canaryville to stop himself being made anyone’s bitch. And if he was going to dig a little deep into that pit of emotions he tucked far far in the back of his closet, creating that hard exterior had been essential in not falling prey to his father’s ruthless abuse. He couldn’t be soft, or he would have been used to wipe the floor.

Mickey tightened his grip on his phone, squared his shoulders and ignored the boy for the rest of the break.

 

* * *

 

Usually Mickey spent his lunch breaks out in the city with Mandy or Claude, or even by himself which he usually preferred best. When it was too hot out or he was just feeling too lazy he just stayed in his office, but that day he had other plans. He needed to take action upon a certain situation. Send a message to a certain person. He had finally had enough with feeling uncomfortable and agitated in his own space and he’d decide it was time to take a stand.

It only took him precisely three minutes to set it up.

Strolling into the break room ten minutes before lunch he shrugged off his suit jacket as he didn’t want it getting creased as he went about his ‘plan’, but the idea that he had actually done that made him feel like a proper fag and his mind instantly jumped to pair of blazing black eyes piecing down on him from above. He tried to shake the feeling off and stifle it with a few deep breaths and a stream of short phrases he repeated internally to himself.

_Everything is ok._

_You are ok. You are safe. You are free._

_Mandy is ok. She is safe. She is free. ._

_You can be yourself._

_Everything is ok._

And finally when he felt his breathing regulate and the sense of that man watching him wore off, he set his jaw and got to work.

When Curtis arrived in the break room that lunch to see Mickey actually sitting there he looked vaguely surprised. Then he noticed what had changed and Mickey watched as the realisation sank in. It travelled down his body from head to toe and every part of him reacted as if he was jolting into a different part of himself. Shifting gear. He wasn’t the teasing man from earlier that day. His eyes hardened and his brow furrowed and his fists curled in at his sides.

He didn’t look angry as such, more tired, more exasperated, than Mickey had imagined. He felt very content with the reaction, suppressing a smirk. He looked over at his side, viewing the empty space where only early that day ‘Curtis’s chair’ had sat – but now was just the bare carpet, a soft sun mark present in the shape of the missing seat.

There was a moment where their eyes meet.

That moment between war and peace. Between blood and the white flag. When the result could fall either way, anything could happen.

Fight. Or flight.

He knew which one he was choosing that day, no matter how much the soles of his feet tingled to move, to flee. He planted his feet firmly into the ground. He wasn’t going anywhere.

A buzzing noise sounded and their intense eye contact broke with a snap as Curtis reached into his back pocket to pull out his phone. His eyes scanned the screen monetarily and he looked put out by what he had read, then with that, he turned and left the room. Not looking back.

 

* * *

 

The next day Mickey walked in to the break room his chest held high with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Like a male lion he had claimed his territory.

However what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks and he felt the air leave his lungs like he’d been shot in the gut.

Curtis Wilder was sat in Mickey’s chair. No, not even sat. Was lying in Mickey’s chair. His back rested against one of its arms and he had his leg swung over the other like it was his fucking throne. His arm casually rested on the back.

 _Check-fucking-mate_ the boys eyes whispered as they dragged up Mickey’s body, locking with his blue ones.

But he wasn’t about to crumble so easily, Wilder wanted to play dirty? Well, he wouldn’t disappoint. No one played dirtier then Mickey Milkovich.

He held his opponents gaze a moment longer, before strolling over to the glass wall on the far side of the room, keeping his posture relaxed to show that boy’s actions hadn’t fazed him in the slightest.

The room smelled strongly of coffee and microwave meals and his stomach grumbled quietly with desire, but he shoved that down because he had more important things to focus on

He’d had shifted the ginger idiots chair over to the glass wall, twisting it round so it faced the windows, its back to the rest to the room. It was his way of saying the boy wasn’t a part of this organisation. A lone chair stranded out by itself. A Lone chair for a lone ginger.

But now Mickey moved to stand next to the chair where he rested his hip against its side and faced to look out the window. The city below him looked almost still and peaceful.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers and remained like that, feeling the eyes of the boy burning into the small of his back. A few second passed, and then something shifted in the air that told him that he had the attention of everyone in the room. Around twenty pairs of eyes were on him.

Using the outrage burning through his veins to fuel his actions and spur him on he reached out a hand and let it drag across the back of the ‘Curtis chair’, his finger tips only brushing softly against the material. Every inch of him wanted to see the reaction of the room. But mostly just of Wilder.

He stopped on the arm of the chair, his hand just resting there, before he let himself slowly clench his fist around the fabric, his nails piecing into the leather, his knuckles going white. Every muscle in his arm was tensed and the tendons in his hands and wrist protruded with the strain.

It was then that he realised that he could see the reflection of the room faintly in the window. He let himself study the faces of his colleges briefly. What he saw was exactly what he’d expected: shocked, worried, anxious faces. Mouths open just so, not enough to be obvious, but enough that it was evident they were on edge. Nervous for what Mickey could do – of what they knew he was capable of.

Everyone knew Mickey, they had all heard about the lengths he had gone to for this organisation. They kind of jobs Alberto had had him do; they were stories of legend amongst their line of work. Only no one asked him about them, no one really asked him anything, because everyone seemed to have that right balance of respect and fear for Mickey. Apart from Claude, Mandy and Charlotte that was. And any one higher up in the company, but in general, he held a hell of a lot of power compared to many of them.

His gaze landed on Curtis’ face in the reflection. He couldn’t read his expression; it was too guarded, and not clear enough to distinguish from this far away. But something about the way his face tilted to the side suggested confusion, apprehension. And a touch of humour.

Mickey smirked darkly at him when he noticed the boy was watching his reflection. The tinges of humour in his expression faded away – and that was good. That was what he wanted.

Suddenly turning round he set his attention on Curtis directly. He heard a faint gasp off to his side from one of his colleges. The tension was building in the air second by the second and everyone was frozen in place. Maybe Mickey would scream violent threats. Or flip a table. Or flip Curtis until his back was broken. He loved that in that moment no one could predict what he was going to do – it made him feel powerful. In control.

He stalked across the room in Curtis’ direction and though he saw the boy trying not to he shrunk ever so slightly in his chair. His eyes filling with alarm. He stopped halfway across the room from him, his other colleges still in his line of sight.

“Mr Wilder,” He spoke, his voice even, “the only reason you are here, in this building and working for the man you are, is because of me. I got you to where you are today, that leg up? That was from me.” He didn’t curse because that was how he usually talked and he didn’t want to sound the same as usual. He wanted to have an impact. He wanted to humiliate. “Mr De Rege may have hired you, but I put your sorry ass in that hotel in the first place. The money in your bank right now, all those dirty green bucks stuffed in your waistband, that is all because of me. And you know what that means? It means that from now on the food on your table, the roof over your head, and the clothes on your back, that’s _all_ down to me. So how about you show some respect. Cough up a little appreciation while you’re at it. How about you stop acting like a child. And. Grow. Up.”

The boy didn’t say anything for a long time; he only rearranged himself in the chair to sit properly. But then almost hesitantly though with a tinge of determination, his voice low, “But you tired to mess with me...”

“I moved your chair. Big fucking deal. We aren’t in nursery school here, Wilder. I moved your chair to that window because I wanted you to look out of it and be reminded you of where you are. To give you a God damn reality check. I was set the task of looking after you, well, here’s lesson number one. If you’re going to live amongst lions you need to at least have an idea of what their den looks like.”

He had never bullshitted so well and so fast in his entire life because everything that had spilled out his mouth had been a lie. He had wanted to fuck with Wilder. He had wanted to piss him off and play dirty and sneaky and hell, that was what was childish. Curtis was flushed almost as red as his hair and his hands were twisted together awkwardly in his lap.

Mickey took his hands out his pockets. His jaw held high. He didn’t need to properly look around the room to notice the shock and giddy excitement that came with drama that was bubbling around the room.

And then Mickey walked out not looking back at the disheartened face of the freckled man who looked ashamed, a look he hadn’t seen on him before...but he didn’t have time to feel guilty for that. He didn’t have time. He did _not_ have time.

 

* * *

 

The last thing Mickey expected to see on a Friday afternoon was one very angry, very fierce Curtis Wilder thundering into his office. His feet thudded against the carpet with each step as he neared his desk, “What _the fuck_ is your problem with me?”

Heat pricked at the back of Mickey’s neck, the fine hairs there standing on end as he tried to hide his surprise. His eyes landed on the taut muscles clearly visible under the man’s tight t-shirt. He looked back up to his face quickly. “What the ever loving fuck are you talking about?!”

It had been three days since the chair fiasco and both boys had managed to avoid any further encounters, their work schedules thankfully saving them from interaction.

Curtis moved closer slamming his palms down on Mickey’s desk, his shoulders hunched as he towered over him. “Don’t act like you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about! If that was lesson number two then shit I’m gonna need some fucking firearms at hand by the time we reach the third.”

Mickey frowned because he honestly was very confused but thinking things through or talking thing out hadn’t ever been his way of problem solving. It was more along the lines of act first, think later. All he knew was that Curtis was here in his office, uninvited, challenging him to some kind of fight.

He stood up quickly his chair skidding back fast behind him.

“You have three second shut your trap, turn around and walk the fuck out before I kick your ass outta here myself.” Mickey spat out, his chin titled down so he was glaring up at his opponent. He mirrored the boy’s stance placing his palms flat on the surface of his desk.

“Go fuck yourself, Mickey.” Wilder grunted through barred teeth his voice dangerously low. Mickey caught himself registering how sexy that sounded. How sexy his voice sounded saying Mickey’s name in that tone. But before that thought could even process completely he’d already mentally hung himself, because that was Wilder he was thinking about. Wilder wasn’t allowed to sound sexy and dark and dangerous.

He was round the table and up in the escort’s face before he could do anything to stop him. Curtis stumbled backwards taken by complete surprise as Mickey worked on instincts, bunching the fabric of the boy’s shirt in his hand as he slammed him with full into the wall. He heard a satisfying thud as the Curtis’ head slung back and whacked into the wall hard before lulling back forward.

“ _How dare you_.” Mickey sneered.

Curtis’ body was inches apart from his, their faces uncomfortably close. Close enough for Mickey to study every detail of the man’s face – only he was more blinded by anger in that moment to consider doing anything else.

“This is about my job isn’t it? You think you’re better than me. I won’t have you look down on me.” Curtis said, his voice was controlled and didn’t waver to a higher volume, but the cold aggravation ran thick in his words.

Mickey’s hand clenched hander in his shirt and he gave him another firm shove, pushing him harder against the wall and their bodies inched even closer, Mickey forearm brushing against Wilder’s chest from holding his shirt. He could feel his heavy breathing against the sensitive skin of his cheeks.

“I don’t exactly have a lot to judge on...all I know is that you’re up to fuck in a bathroom and you can wear a mask like it’s your own fucking face.”

Mickey felt the heat surge up in Curtis’ arms but was too late to react before the man shoved him off furiously with both hands planted firming on his chest.

Curtis stepped away from the wall as he staggered backwards. “This is my profession, ok. It’s legal and it takes skill and competence. Not just any idiot of the street could do what I do. Ok, maybe you presented me with the opportunity but I am the one who got myself hired at the end of the day. _Me_. I have worked my ass off to be where I am today and I won’t have you fucking tare me down for that.” His naturally light eyes darkened over and the sight made Mickey gulp.

He looked away, biting his lip and staring down at the floor. He sighed deeply before looking up and folding his arms. He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but he knew the Wilder was right. “Are you gonna explain why you stormed in here with your panties in a twist in the first place?”                                                             

Curtis laughed coldly and shock his head from side to side as he let it fall back to look up at the ceiling.

“You’re unbelievable. And you told me _I_ needed to grow up.” He jabbed a finger in his own chest when he addressed himself and then turned it on Mickey, “You can go tell your little friends that they don’t fucking scare me. And neither do you.”

 

* * *

 

Wilder had escorted himself out the office without Mickey needing to help him. But their confrontation hung over him for the rest of the day. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, running Curtis’ words though his head over and over again. He half wished he had gotten him to enlighten on what he was talking about instead of just letting him leave, because God knows he was curious. _What had he meant about a second lesson?_ He hadn’t done anything to challenge the man since the chair incident when he’d given his first ‘lesson’. An easy solution would be just to go and find the man and ask him but something about that felt like giving in. It also made him look like he gave a shit. Which he didn’t. Clearly. It’s wasn’t as if he could still feel the burn of the boys hands against his chest from where he had pushed him.

He swatted away at the thoughts clouding his mind and looked up to force a tight smile at the woman sitting behind the huge curved steal desk in reception. “Hey Zara, I’m heading out, you ready for a –” But he stopped when he noticed the coffee cup already resting next to her.

Zara and Mickey had always had an agreement of sorts that when one was going out to picking up a coffee they would generally, if not always, pick one up for the other. It sounded like very friendly, if not couple-ish behaviour but honestly apart from that the two were hardly close. They only thing they had in common was that they both happened to work _really_ late, often being amongst the last two in the building. Their relationship was based on acknowledging nods, soft friendly smiles and understand shrugs. And lots of coffee. They both seemed to live of the stuff and once that had been discovered it only seemed polite, not that Mickey was often the polite kind of guy, to help each other out. Coffee runs had been a thing ever since.

“That’s alright, Mr Milkovich. I’ve got one.” The girl blushed and fiddled with her hair, pushing it behind her ear in that away that was only too familiar to him. Mandy did that. The thought warmed him a little, which was probably the reason he shuffled closer, learned over the desk, and plucked the coffee right off the surface.

“Hey!” She yelped and blushed hard as she fumbled to stand up in her chair.

He laughed and held the cup out of her reach and the girl tried to reach over the desk and swipe it back. She was laughing and smiling too so he knew that that was ok, that what he was doing wasn’t a step too far from their usual very basic interaction. He was reminded of his sister again watching Zara - there was definitely a boy involved there was no bout about it no one looked that simultaneously embarrassed and excited if there wasn’t a boy involved.

“This isn’t even your coffee order?!” Mickey gasped with fake but playful annoyance.

“Mickey!”

He stared down at the cup, noticing the black outline of a message scrawled across the side. He read it aloud “Love, Ian.” He grimaced and shot her an amused look, “Smiley face. Kiss.” He traced the big grinning smiley face with his thumb and then the messy kiss symbol.

Zara was completely red in the face as she finally managed to seize the cup out of Mickey’s hands.

“Seriously?”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“Sure. I’ve heard that before.” And he actually had, from Curtis. That day in the bathroom he had caught him pre-fuck. Those were the exact words he had given him then. He wasn’t falling for them then, and he wasn’t falling for them now.

“Honestly Mickey!” She giggled and Mickey stepped away ‘cause he wasn’t good with girly shit. “I helped him out earlier and he wanted to repay the favour.”

“By helped him out,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “you don’t mean you blew him in the bathroom do you?”

Her mouth fell in to a perfect ‘O’ shape. “No! God no! This,” She gestured at the cup, “Is completely innocent.”

“Who the fuck is this Ian dude anyway? If you’re gonna replace me I’d at least like to know who’s showing me up.” He inquired his tone annoyed.

“Don’t take it personally. I think he could show anyone up.” And then that smile settled on her face again - the kind that only appeared when someone was harbouring a deep, intense crush.

“Ah fuck off.” Mickey smirked no real anger in it.

He was just glad he never got himself into situations or emotions as stupid _that_.

“Don’t let him take you home, he sounds like a douchebag!” He tossed over his shoulder as he left the girl to it.

 

* * *

 

The weekend passed by uneventful. He went to the Revs, the vintage meets quirky independent music store Claude’s family owned. At the back of the store it had its own coffee shop that he often liked to hang out in on lazy weekends to flick through records and autobiographies of great music legends.

Mandy had come over to his apartment on Saturday night. He cooked. They got high. They stayed in and watched the Matrix. She had feel asleep on his shoulder and he’d easily pick her up in his arms and cradled her to his bedroom as she softly snored against him. He’d laid her down on his bed, peeled her socks off for her and then tucked the covers up around her before going to sleep on the couch.

Sunday, after Mandy left in the morning, he spent alone.

 

* * *

 

Three day passed. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Curtis hadn’t come into work once. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was linked to whatever incident the man had blamed him for. Alberto hadn’t mentioned him, so Mickey hadn’t asked.

 

* * *

 

As Mickey arrived at work on Thursday he felt refreshed. In Curtis’ mysterious absence he had had time to recover himself from the intense and almost relentless anger and frustration he had felt with the boy drifting about every day.

He was polite to Alberto.

He laughed with Claude come break.

He even caught himself humming a song he didn’t recognise.

However, because he was Mickey Milkovich and the world hated him and god forbid he felt ok for even a minute - come lunch time his newly relaxed mood was scuffed.

He was walking down to his office where he knew Mandy would be waiting for him so that they could head out to grab a bite together.

Only, yes, she was waiting. But she wasn’t alone.

_Shitting hell._

Mickey tried to stroll over as casually as he could but that seemed to prove really bloody hard when Mandy was resting herself against the door frame of Mickey’s office provocatively and Curtis Fucking Wilder was leaning against the wall of the hall equally invitingly as they engaged in conversation. Mandy was giving him that smile she seemed to have to just stashed away in her back pocket for these exact kinds of situations and she was peering up at him through her lashes and laughing softly. She was using all her typical girly flirting techniques on the man he had a deep seated hatred for and it was almost enough to make him want to tear the man’s throat out. His young, rebellious, delinquent South Side trashy self would have down it - but Mickey was trying to actually keep his job. So instead he shot Mandy a ‘hey’ and came to stand close enough to her, but far enough away from the redhead that he could send the clear signal that he needed to back the fuck off.

Mandy gave him a huge toothy smile when he she actually realised he was there, managing to tear her eyes away from the guy in front of her long enough to return his greeting.

“I was just talking to Curtis here, Mick. I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve meet.” She was smiling back at Wilder.

Mickey gave her a dead stare. “Yeah, I got eyes don’t I?” He reached his hand out to place on the crook of her elbow because all he really wanted was to leave and get some food in him, “Come on, Mandy. My stomach is grumbling like a fucking monster.”

Curtis who had looked relaxed talking to Mandy was now full of apprehension with the arrival of Mickey. He had stopped leaning against the wall and had crossed his arms over his chest with an air of hostility. Which was understandable seeing as the last time they had met he had slammed him into a wall.

“Mandy? _You’re_ Mandy. _The_ Mandy.” Wilder asked, not paying Mickey the slightest attention. Which was fine by him.

“The one and only.” She practically glowed, giving him a little curt tilt of her body. “Has shithead here mentioned me?” She asked in reference to Mickey as she nudged his hand on her elbow off her casually.

Curtis shrugged, “Hm. You could say that.” The corner of his mouth pricked up at the end of his sentence in way that said he knew more than he was letting on which made Mickey fear that the idiot still thought Mandy was in any way involved with him in a way that brothers and sisters definitely should not be involved.

Mandy gave her brother a sceptical glance. “But honestly, it’s weird right, how this is this first time I’m meeting you? You’ve been working here for a couple weeks or something.”

“Yeah, where have you been hiding?” he teased. Mickey frowned. He seemed to notice and shifted his posture – Mickey hoped it was because he felt uncomfortable.

“I work a few floors down. And apart from this guy,” Mandy knocked against Mickey’s arm with her fist playfully, “I’ve never got a reason to be up here.” Mickey started to feel restless and his stomach rumbled in agreement, a sign they both need to get the hell out of this conversation. He went to say something about needing to head out again but Mandy was opening her trap, “Although, I guess the view is a lot better up here.”

His first thought was that he agreed, the view was definitely better, but then he side eyed Mandy and noticed she was biting her lip and her eye lashes were fluttering and suddenly the second meaning, the meaning she intended, suck in.

Mickey did a full on double take at the bitch would called herself his sister but who was very close to having herself downgraded. _What the hell was she doing?!_

“Mandy.” He put his hand on her elbow again, only more insistent this time. “We are leaving.”

She rolled her eyes and Curtis stood up straighter as if he was finished with this conversation as well. Which again, suited Mickey just fine. “Okay, okay. Calm it,” She gave a pouted smile at the escort, “I’ll seeing you around, Curtis.”

He nodded with a tight smile, something in his eyes almost solemn. “Yeah. That would be nice, Mandy. I haven’t exactly had the warmest welcome here.”

Mickey felt like ice was sliding down his spine and he felt the sudden need to defend himself but that would only be rising to the bait and also make him look guilty as fuck.

His sister’s brow furrowed, “Shit. I’m sorry to hear that.” She looked genuinely bad for the guy and started to rummage around in her pocket, pulling out a rectangular piece of card. “This is where I work in the building,” She handed it to him and he took it hesitantly and then with all flirtation and sexual intent lost from her voice, “You ever wanna hang out, that’s where you’ll find me.”

Curtis smiled then and it was the most content and relaxed he had looked throughout the whole conversation. He looked down at the card in his large, calloused hands, squinting slightly to read the small print and his smile grew a little bigger. “Thanks.” He said genuinely, his face softening.

Mickey couldn’t look at that and so he stared at a point on the wall behind the man’s head. Forcing himself to keep staring there. Don’t look don’t look don’t look.

Mandy and Curtis said goodbye properly and Mandy even let her hand rest on the man’s arm before they parted.

Mickey didn’t say anything.

As he and his sister took the elevator to the ground floor Mandy edged closer to him with that smug smile of hers and gave him one of her classic eye brow wiggles.

“He is hot as fuck.”

Mickey stayed silence.

“He could bang me every which way he wanted.”

He shuffled and stuffed his hands in his pockets to fiddle with the soft lining.

“I bet he could go down on me for hours.”

He snapped. “ _Fucking hell_ , Mandy! I don’t wanna hear all that sick sexual shit. Fuck, and especially when it’s coming out of your mouth.”

She snorted into her hand and her eyes crinkled. “You can’t deny that he is one fine piece of ass.”

Mickey didn’t answer that exact comment. One, because he was not going to start discussing men with his sister. And two, he didn’t know if he agreed or disagreed with his sister. But when he felt a lump rise in his throat that gave him a pretty clear idea indication of his true feelings towards Mandy’s remark – but he wasn’t going to think about that.

 

* * *

_Lanky C_  
_1:30pm_  
_You heard the news?_

 

 **1:40pm**  
**No. What?**

_Lanky C_  
_1:42pm_  
_;)_

 

 **1:43pm**  
**Claude, you fuckin want to keep your balls don’t ya?**

_Lanky C_  
_1:45pm_  
_Boss Man’s ginger muffin is coming to Greenwell._

**1:46pm**  
**How ya know that?**

_Lanky C_  
_1:47pm_  
_Was driving the car when he invited him._

 

 **1:49pm**  
**What’d he say?**

_Lanky C_  
_1:51pm_  
_I said he was going didn’t I._

 

 **1:55pm**  
**Don’t get snappy with me dildo**

_Lanky C_  
_1:56pm_  
_You’re so touchy._

 

 **1:58pm**  
**Fuck off.**

 

 

_BOSS MAN_  
_2:30pm_  
_Take Curtis to the tailor. He’s going to need a suite. I want him to look exceptional for Greenwell._

 

* * *

 

Mickey stood waiting outside ‘Original Tailors’ _,_ a coffee cup in one hand, the other stuffed in his pocket, and his face the picture of _pissed the fuck off._ Spending his evening clothes shopping was not his ideal thought of a good time. It was more like the evening from the depth of the 7th hell. And Curtis Wilder was the devil. His red hair being a well suited characteristic of that.

The appointment had been booked for 6:30, only half an hour after he had gotten off work. He was exhausted and in no state to socialise or communicate or walk or think or basically anything.

At 6:25 Claude pulled up alongside the curb in his company owned mercedes benz, the devil riding shot gun.

Rolling down the window, Claude reached his fist out which Mickey meet glumly by tapping his knuckles against his, lacking the enthusiasm of the ‘bro’ greeting. “Sup, man.” Claude smiled poking his head out the window.

“Yo.” Mickey sighed.

Claude titled his head to one side sympathetically because he clearly understood exactly how he felt about his task. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he winked then with a cheeky grin and Mickey just sighed harder.

Getting out the car Claude moved over to open the door for his passenger who thanked him as he emerged. “My bro here will text me when you need picking up, have fun.” He clapped Curtis on the shoulder before getting back in the car and speeding off in to distance.

Mickey watched the car all the way until it was out of sight as Wilder came to stand awkwardly by him on the side walk.

The boy pointed up to the dark moss green sign that spelled out the name ‘Original Taylors’ in wavy, curled font. “This looks fancy.”

“You’ll be sure to like it then.” Mickey replied tossing his coffee cup into the nearby trash can.

The escort turned to him then and took a meaningful step closer, chewing on his lip nervously. “Look, Mickey. I need to talk to you.”

Mickey stepped away instinctively, the walls he held around himself instantly climbing 5ft higher. “What we need is to get a fucking move on.” He reached to open the door to the shop but Curtis took another, faster step closer.

“Fuck. Out the wa–” Mickey started to gasp but the younger boy hurriedly moved to stand between him and the entrance to the tailors.

His flaming red hair caught a sparkle of sun light and glowed under its radiance. “God, just stop.”

Mickey jaw grew tight and he moved again to somehow entre the shop but Curtis brought his hands out in front of him a pleading look in his eyes. The move wasn’t threatening, only desperate and Mickey found himself freezing in place and glaring up into apple green eyes.

A second past in which the boy waited to see if Mickey was going to try and do anything, but when Mickey straightened up and crossed his arms he seemed to come to the decision he wasn’t and opened his mouth to speak.

 _“_ I’ve tried, I’ve tried real fucking hard to get on with you, Mickey. But you’ve been a dick to me. A real dick. And you know what, fuck you for not taking the high road and straight up telling me what your problem was. Instead you’ve left me for _weeks_ in the dark to figure out myself what the hell I’d done to you! You know, I almost came to the conclusion that you just have a permanent stick up your ass and that’s just who you are. But no, that couldn’t be it because I’ve seen the way you carry on with Claude, and the way you address clients and how you jester with Zara at the desk. And today with Mandy.” He took a deep breath, “so fuck that means there’s an issue with me. Just me.”

Mickey shifted his balance from foot to foot as everything inside him curdled and the pulse in his neck hammered unevenly. He had no idea what to say and he had no idea how he felt. Yes, his heart hammered in his chest but his skin also felt cold and it was such a clash of unfamiliarity that he was left frozen in place. “What exactly are you after here? You want a fucking apology?” His voice rising in volume defensively.

“No! I mean yeah – Ah fuck.” He rubbed his hand over his face his eyes screwed shut. “No, this is _my_ apology.” He opened his eyes again wide.

Mickey rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “Alright asshole, maybe you don’t do this often but even I can tell you that that doesn’t come close to passing as any form of fucking apology.”

“Just. Just listen.” His hands were back up in fear Mickey would try to leave again. “Ok so I thought about it. The way things are with you and Alberto –”

“You don’t know shit about how things are between me and Alberto.” And with that his voice was darkly low and all anxiety was lost to the wind because fuck this kid for acting like he knew _a fucking thing_ about his relationship with Alberto. No one, absolutely no one understood the history between him and Alberto.

He seemed to sense that he had stumbled onto a delicate topic, untouched territory, and Mickey could almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he tried to figure out what that meant.

But instead of pushing the point he back tracked on himself. “I mean, he’s your boss, and this is your job, so on the applicant day you would’ve wanted to _do_ your job. And with what happened, on the day...you didn’t get to do that. You organised the whole thing didn’t you? Claude mentioned something about you working your ass off to do it properly. I’m not going to lie to you and accept that it was my fault, because it wasn’t. I had no intention of sabotaging your day or anything – I was just looking out for myself. But I guess I interfered with something you had worked hard on and I wanted to say sorry for ruining that I guess. I know what it feels like to have your efforts go to waste. ”

Shit. Shitting _shit_. That was exactly how he felt. He resented the man for crushing his opportunity to prove himself, to gain some _worth_. For him to feel good about himself – to feel a sense of achievement.

Curtis Wilder had hit the problem on the nose. And that, that was scary, because was he honestly that easy to read? It felt like a punch in the gut.

His speechless reaction just about said so.

“Mickey?” Curtis asked wearily and he appeared to be bracing himself for some kind of eruption from him, for Mickey to just lose control – let his anger absorb him like he usually would. But instead he felt empty, like Curtis had reached inside him and scooped his insides out. “Mickey?” the boy said again more urgently this time.

“Okay.”

Curtis blinked once. Twice. Then his raised an eyebrow and leaned back looking Mickey up and down like he didn’t believe what he was hearing. He made a soft huff in the back of his throat, leaning back further and looking around like he still didn’t believe what was happening and he needed conformation from someone nearby. His mouth was hanging open a fraction his lips glistening with a pink tint. “Really?”

“Okay.” Mickey repeated because he still felt the crushing burn of _nothingness._

The anger, the pain, the resentment – it had all slipped away and nothing was left to feel. He wasn’t sure if he had accept Curtis’ apology, but hearing him say it all out allowed, to hear him acknowledge what the problem was, it felt like something. And he couldn’t ignore that even if he tried. Yes, it would be easier to continue hating him. That he could handle. That he understood like a second nature because fuck, he wore anger on his shoulders everywhere he went.

_What was he suppose to feel now?_

_What was Curtis Wilder to him if he wasn’t an enemy?_

He felt like that was something new he was just going to have to discover as he looked up into the eyes of the man he didn’t know and just...just looked. They shone in a way that he didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone’s eyes shine before.

Curtis still had just mouth hanging slightly open in that surprised way and as each second passed by without Mickey putting up a fight the right side of that mouth inched up until he was half smiling down at Mickey. The little crease between his brows suggested that he was still confused and it was that confused amusement that startled Mickey out of whatever wave he had been submerged under.

“So it everything good between us now? No more passive aggressive shit?”

“Will you shut the fuck up and get in there if I say yes, Wilder?” Mickey said nodding to the tailors behind them. They were going to be late for their appointment.

Curtis smiled a little bigger with that confused amusement. Like Mickey was a mystery he wanted to discover. “Yeah,” He paused, stopping to consider something. A brief moment passed in which he could see the man battling with himself, his long fingers twitching at his sides. “And it’s Ian. Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey quirked an eyebrow at him, not expecting to discover that information about the escort. Later he would question why the man had told him at all, but in that second he just let the name settle between them. _Ian Gallagher._ That insight into a part of the man’s life that wasn’t ‘Curtis’ related seemed bizarre.

“Answer the question then.”

“ Fuck– okay whatever.” He rubbed at his nose again. “Yes”

And just like that, that simple yes. That _yes_ that was acceptance and sorry and forgiveness. That _yes_ that promised more - that promised something new. Just like that, everything changed. Mickey didn’t realise it then, not in that moment when he was swallowing his pride and gritting his teeth hard enough to not stare at the way _Ian’s_ eyes looked with the light fracturing off them. Yes he definitely didn’t know it then, but as the light over the city faded into darkness and Mickey and the boy disappeared into the tailors a new dawn was looming over his life. A new light was ready to emerge. And when it did, he would be left breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this has taken a while to get up but I hope that you are still interested and that you are still enjoying it!  
> I was so thankful that Ian revealed his name to Mickey because honestly it was getting frustrating calling him Curtis all the time but I really wanted it to be at the right time so it would mean something important when he did.  
> Let me know what you think I love to hear your feedback/thoughts/feelings :) X


	6. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey couldn’t help but feel like his two very separate, completely contrasting worlds were about to collide head on.

Hate. That’s what he thought he had felt for Ian Gallagher. Hate was a cruel and dark and evil feeling. People always said hate was a strong word – and that, Mickey knew, was very true.

As he sat on the green velvet bench in Original Tailors waiting for the man himself to appear from behind the dark wooden door of the fitting room he thought about how he had felt in past few weeks. Thought about the feeling ‘hate’. He had been so sure, convincing himself over and over again as he lay awake at night and as he brushed his teeth or when he shuffled out on to his balcony for a smoke that he hated Ian Gallagher. Only now when he thought back on it, why had he had to convince himself so badly that that’s what it was? Hate was a feeling that stuck to your bones and corrupted your soul and it wasn’t something you _tried_ to feel. But it was as if these past few weeks Mickey had been trying to _convince_ himself he hated Ian. But this feeling, this feeling he was almost so sure of, was it hate?

Ian Gallagher had said sorry to him.

That had happened.

He felt that he should be completely at ease and comfortable with that, because the half of him that had been reared inside the walls of Red House Royal thought damn straight he should be apologising. If people wronged Alberto they apologised to Alberto. If Mickey wronged Alberto he apologised to Alberto. It was all based on the hierarchy system of the company, of respecting those above you and doing your duty. But the Mickey he was in the comforts of his apartment, the one who played air guitar to Queen when no one was watching and who kept an illustrated diary - he felt unsettled in his stomach.

Handling and asserting power and authority in the dynamics of the workroom wasn’t something that came naturally to him. It was something he had to practice and observe from his colleges. There was something so innately instilled in him to seek isolation and independence in all parts of his life. To be an island. To be a lone wolf. That often he found if challenging to disguise himself amongst these sharks. If a job was to be done he did it his goddamn self, no matter what it was because Mickey Milkovich didn’t lean on anyone. He didn’t need help. He didn’t feel the need or desire to make others do his dirty work for him, he did it, by himself. Because that’s all that he had. Himself. But being a part of a business meant doing things _together_. And as he had learnt from observing Alberto, being high up also meant delegating, and commanding. It meant cutting people down and tearing people up to maintain that upper hand. And you didn’t or shouldn’t feel guilty for that.

Aspects of that Mickey could relate to – you don’t get by in the south side without playing dirty. But he had always been more familiar with the physical aspects of that – of blood and bruises and swollen cheeks and aching ribs.

He thought back to what he had said to Ian Gallgher in break room. The harsh words he had spat at him. That had felt good, a rush of confidence and superiority. He had felt like Alberto. But looking back on them, after hearing Ian’s apology, he felt cold. Like ice was pricking under his skin.

They hadn’t spoken much after having entered the tailor’s, except when necessary. A thick air had drifted in the gaps between them and in the corners of the room. It hung over their heads like a dark mist. He couldn’t pin point why, he thought that things were meant to be easy between them now. The ‘applicant day issue’ no longer burned in the recesses of his mind when he looked at the man. Surprisingly it, and all the issues and problems it had caused for Mickey, slipped away strangely quickly after Ian had mentioned it out in the open. He had been clinging to the burns it had left on him, burns he knew had already healed, yet he had still held to it. He didn’t understand why he had done that.

“Hey, I gotta ask you something.” Mickey called out to what appeared was an empty room but really he was addressing the man shielded behind the fitting room door.

“Huh?” Ian (though it still felt odd thinking of him as that and not Curtis) semi-shouted through the door.

“What the hell were you so angry about the other day in my office?”  

But Ian never got a chance to reply as that moment someone else appeared in the room.

“Mr Milkovich?”

He looked up sharply to meet the kind face of the short pump tailor. Mr James Harrison had known him since the first day Alberto himself had taken Mickey to get his first suit made almost five years ago. The act was almost like a rite of passage now into the company. It was a stamp of approval to say you had been accepted. Mr Harrison was a gentle man, with nibble and hand working hands.

“Would Mr Wilder like to try the slanted pockets?”

“On the navy number?” Mr Harrison nodded and Mickey titled his head to one side to mull it over, slightly annoyed at the interruption. “Yeah, alright let’s try it.”

The tailor had already taken Ian’s measurements so he just needed to try on a selection of different suits to find the one for him. Then Mr Harrison would go away and make a brand new identical suit that was perfectly tailored to Ian’s size and it would be collected upon its complication.

The door to the fitting room slowly swung open and there surrounded by the gold panelling of the doorframe stood Ian Gallagher like a portrait.

Mr Harrison beckoned at him and he strolled out leisurely coming to stand on the podium that was surrounded by full length mirrors that allowed you to view every angle of yourself.

Mickey hadn’t seen him in a suit before, and for the briefest second he wondered why the man didn’t just live in them. His breath caught in his throat and his palms heated in that way they did when he was tingling on the edge of being nervous.

The suit didn’t fit perfectly, the sleeves of the jacket were slightly too short and the collar of the shirt was too big. The pants were perhaps a bit too tight, but he didn’t look down _there_ long enough to inspect. Nevertheless, Ian stood in the suit with his shoulder pushed back and his jaw sharp like he was on the front cover of vogue.

Trying not to gulp Mickey decided the best way to handle this was to look at it from the perspective of what it was, a job. He stood up and edged closer to the podium, as Mr Harrison stayed back making the soft humming sound he often did when he was thinking.

“What do you think?” Ian asked modestly as he undid the buttons on his jacket and pulled it open to present himself and the outfit to the men.

Mickey made a clicking noise with his tongue, “Fit could be better and uh...not the pinstripe. Screams mobster don’t you think?” He directed the question at Mr Harrison who gave a gentle tilt of his head that was neither in agreement or disagreement. “Boss Man will be in it too and believe me you don’t wanna be matching. He’s not the kinda guy who’s up for sharing the spotlight.”

Ian shrugged with a nod that showed he didn’t mind either way and Mickey got the sense that he was happy to just go along with whatever he advised.

“How does it feel Mr Wilder?” The tailor asked.

Ian turned round to consider himself in the mirror. “A little uncomfortable.”

He tried on three more suits but none of them where right. Time was ticking by and Mickey was starting to grow feed up of waiting and then staring and then waiting and then commenting, and then repeating that over and over again. He was growing weary by the second.

Suddenly, he decided he’d had enough.

With the escort standing the in navy suit Mr Harrison had asked about, Mickey clapped his hands together. “Ok, fuck it. Here’s what we need.” He hopped up onto the podium next to Ian and started to slowly walk laps round the man, studying every detail of the suit. Just the suit. Only the suit.

Ian straighted up for him as Mickey stalked round him. “Classic jet black suit, narrow lapels,” his hands hovered inches off the navy ones Ian’s had been currently sporting. “Slim straight front pants.” He retracted his hand to gesture it at the man’s legs and as he rounded to the front of him. Green eyes were trained on him like a hawk. “Silk white shirt with French cuffs.” He stop directly in front of Ian and turned to face him front on, their chests in close proximity. “Skinny black tie.”

An unreadable expression washed over the redheads face. Mickey raised an eyebrow at him, “That good with you?”

“Mmhmm.” he replied with a soft upwards twitch at the corner of his lip, his curious eyes never leaving Mickey’s.

He didn’t know if Mr Harrison said anything behind him, perhaps his sense were just a little too distracted.

Stepping down from the podium hurriedly he whipped out the pen tucked in his breast pocket and twiddled it between his fingers, “Is that okay, Mr H?”

“That’s perfect my dear boy.” And he smiled proudly, the kind of smile that made him quickly look away with reddening cheeks because nobody ever looked at him like that. Alberto often called him ‘boy’ but never in the same way. Never with affection.

The tailor scuttled off into the fitting room to remove the array of abandoned pieces of clothing. “Any other requests?”

Mickey huffed and tapped his foot lost in a moment of thought. “You know what, we might as well just sort out a whole bunch of shit while we’re at it.”

Mr Harrison eyed Ian then who looked slightly confused. “That long?” He smiled, the question addressed to Mickey.

“Seems so. This one’s a keeper.” He confirmed looking at Ian too who’s brow drew in further confusion.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian chirped in.

Mr Harrison replied on his behalf, “It means you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, Mr Wilder.”

He didn’t look like he totally understood, but gave a polite smile at Mr Harrison nonetheless, “My own clothes really that bad?”

“Not bad, I’m sure. Just not appropriate for the type of events Mr De Rege will want you attending.”

“I do own a few suits already that I can wear.”

Mickey stepped in, shrugging his shoulder. “But hey, why turn down free shit right? Good shit too.” He nodded at Mr Harrison in what for him was curtly.

Ian looked suddenly surprised, “Alberto is paying for this? But OTE cover all my investments that are job related. It’s in my contract.” he asked slowly, his eyes darting between the men suspiciously.

“Technically yeah, but I gave your agency the heads up about it like two hours ago and they beamed like babies at the idea. So, Red House will cover whatever bills need to be paid from here on up.” Mickey informed.

The redhead shuffled on the spot, “Okay...” He replied, but still sounded hesitant.

Aiming to avoid going into any further detail about the situation Mickey directed his attention to Mr Harrison. Ian would learn in due time why everything had to be so specific and controlled at Red House, and even if he didn’t learn – he would grow to accept it. After all, he didn’t have the patient to explain.

“Get the chip and pin, let’s rack up a bill to cry about.”

Ian grunted a soft laugh at that, apparently ignoring the very quick shift in conversation Mickey had initiated. Thankfully.

“So, what you got for me?” The escort asked simply with a content purse of his lips, but as planted himself down on the velvet bench he flinched ever so subtly and his hand jumped up to grasp his side.

His eyes shot up to meet Mickey’s knowing he had noticed the slip up. He thought Ian was going to say something, provide some sort of explanation, but he only dipped his head down to the floor.

The tailor hadn’t seemed to noticed, he only looked over expectantly at Mickey. When Ian looked up also as if they passing interaction hadn’t happened at all, he rubbed at his nose out of habit, brushing the incident off. “What, you think I got a clue? I know fuck all about clothes and fashion.”

“The way you did Mr Harrison’s job for him not two minutes ago says otherwise.” The escort retorted, crossing his arms in that I-don’t-have-time-for-this-shit manner.

“Whatever.” Mickey grumbled and leaned back to rest against the wall, crossing his arms also.

“Mr Milkovich, if you have anything in mind...well it really would save time.” Mr Harrison sighed with a knowing smile.

A couple seconds passed in silence in which no one said anything. It appeared as if both the men were happy to delegate this on to Mickey’s shoulders. He scuffed his shoe at the carpet, biting his lip. He did want to get home as soon as possible, and he did have _some stuff_ in mind...

“Okay fine, if you two are just gonna sit around on your asses...” He trailed off like the grumpy old man he was and pulled out his notebook, clicking his pen he began scribbled the information down. It took a while, but the two other men didn’t say anything and the silence filled up the room.

Finally, ripping the page out hapzardly he handed it over to Mr Harrison who rushed over to accept it. “Let’s keep this shit simple. Five cotton shirts with classic point collars and dress shirt buttons. Two of them solid white, one light blue...uh, one blue and white checked, and the last one black. Alberto is a sucker for a silk shirt, so what the hell throw in two more of those but keep the French cuff finish. One white with a green stripe” _to match his eyes,_ “and the other an off white and I don’t mean any of that yellowish pissed on white I mean _off white._ ”

He took a beep breathe pushing himself off the wall and went over to were Ian was sitting gobsmacked. It took an expectant raise of his eyebrows for the man to stand but when he did Mickey calculated a few things in his head looking him up at down, “Yeah...could we get one of those light weight tweed suits with the peak lapels. Also two travel blazers, I don’t really give a fuck about the colour just keep the shade light.”

“Wow...” Ian started but Mickey cut him off.

“Hold your horses, gingernut.” He jabbed, which earned him an amused smirk from the man.

“Arms.” He stated simply and the redhead understood quickly raising his arms in front of him.

Mickey glanced at his slim wrists and his large hands with long elegant fingers which finished with curved neatly trimmed nails that were pink like a babies. Freckles scattered his skin and disappeared up and under his shirt sleeve. He tried to ignore the thumping of the pulse in his neck and the sudden dryness in his mouth that it caused.

“The black faced silver Rolex is a sure bet, gonna have to order that one in. Tell ‘em it’s for a Milkovich that dickwad owes me big time.” He considered the creamy pale skin tone of the escort, “Mmm the plain white gold cufflinks, and a pair of the metal knott.” He took a step back to indicate Ian could drop his hands, which he did. “Fuck a tie bar cus’ honestly you throw that into the mix and Alberto will be kicking up your ankles for a quicky in the bathroom and that shits just unprofessional.”

Mr Harrison failed to disguise his alarm as his mouth gaped open and closed like a fish and he gave a few stuttered blinks before gulping. “Though that perhaps was an avoidable comment Mr Milkovich, I dare say it’s true.”

“Exactly. That queen is uncontrollable at the best of times.”

Ian was looking at him quizzically with something close to surprised wonder sparking in his eyes, “Damn,” His body slouched to one side, “Remind me why you work in advertising?”

Mickey sighed and rolled his eyes sheepishly, trying to hide his light blush by turning his back on the both of them and heading towards the front of the store. “I’ll be waiting outside you just get changed already. Chop chop I got places to be.” He threw over his shoulder snapping his fingers impatiently.

 

* * *

 

  ** _James ‘Tailor’ Harrison_** ** _8:45PM:_** _Mr Milkovich, pl_ _ease forgive me for intruding on business that is perhaps further than our working client relationship, but I feel I have known you and Mr De Rege for many years now and it would be a great injustice of me to not inquire further about a very delicate situation. I regret to inform you, that today I viewed something very out of the ordinary. Mr Wilder has bruise on his body. I assumed at first this may be the result of a fight, but I came to the conclusion that this was maybe the result of a sexual encounter. And Mickey, I’m sorry to say that these weren’t quite the usual bruises or marks that many sexual encounters would leave. There were some in the shape of handprints and other larger darker ones all across his abdomen. If this is the result of a fight, wouldn’t he have some sort of bruising on his face? This is what suggested to me to believe there are possibly darker causes for his injuries. I truly hope that my assumptions are incorrect and I wish the best for Mr Wilder. Please excuse my intrusion._

 Mickey sat and stared at the text for a long time. He reader it over a few more times the words refusing to process. Then he closed his phone and left it on the sofa. He grabbed a beer, downed half of it in one gulp and then returned to his phone. He read the text over again. Closed his eyes and repeated the words back to himself.

_Mr Wilder has bruises on his body._

Everything was swarming inside his mind suddenly at a million miles an hour, thoughts and ideas and possibilities jumping about and knocking the breath out of him.

Suddenly that small twist of pain across Gallagher’s face earlier that day made sense. How he had clutched at his side.

_Mr Wilder has bruises on his body._

He downed the second half of his beer and then crushed it viciously in his fist before tossing it aside.

It was 10:50 when he returned to his phone with a considerable amount more alcohol in his system then before.

Before he had clearly thought through what he was doing or made a conscious decision to do it at all he had pressed his phone to his ear and it was ringing. All he knew was that he had to do _something_. Ian might not have been Mickey’s responsibility, but Alberto was. If Alberto was involved – well then fuck, so was Mickey.

“Hello?” Ian’s cheery voice came through the phone.

Mickey took a deep breath, “Uh hey, listen, Wilde– or Gallagher whatever the fuck your name is.”

“Mickey?” His voice came up higher at the end of the name and he sounded utterly surprised. A beat, and then with questioning amusement - “Are you pissed?”

A gabble of loud indistinguishable voices muffled in the background and Mickey lifted the phone away from him – the noise giving him a headache.

“That’s not the point.” He answered once he returned it to his ear.

He heard Ian scoff and the sound of more movement and laughter. “Am I getting a drunk dial from Mickey Milkovich right now?” And to be fair he sounded a little lightheaded himself.

He sighed heavily and kicked absently at one of the empty beer cans at his feet. “Listen Gallagher, no matter where this conversation goes you cannot fuckin’ hang up on me okay? You do that and I will track your ass down and make you face to me in person.” Agitation and worry bleed through into his voice.

The end of the line was quite except for squeals of laughter and more screaming and loud chatter. There was no sound of Ian.

“Gallagher!?”

Then the sound of a door slamming shut and the background noise from earlier was drowned out and he could clearly hear Ian’s steady breathing. It was strangely soothing.

“Fuck wait- Ok. Yeah I’m here...what’s happened?”

“And if _I_ hang up you call me the fuck back and, uh, Jesus if that doesn’t work you use your brains to find my address and turn up at my place and make me talk to you.”

All amusement was lost from his voice, “What the hell is going on?”

Mickey rubbed at his eyes harshly screwing them shut. He may have hated Gallagher, or strongly disliked him...or some other shitty emotion he couldn’t quite pin down for the life of him but he _knew_ that he had to handled this and he _knew_ he was the one who was going to do it because these things got dusted under the rug far to fucking frequently and that made Mickey’s skin crawl.

“Uh. Fuck.” He took another deep breath and opened his mouth to pop the question but nothing came out and he gagged frozen in place the words stuck in his throat.

“Mickey this is really fucking creeping me out, what’s wrong?” his voice tremered ever so subtly and Mickey wondered if that was just the alcohol.

Swallowing down harshly he gritted his teeth. “Did Alberto assault you?”

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four second. Five seconds. Six-

“What?”

“Don’t make me fucking spell it out for you.” He closed his eyes, his words drifting out quietly with a sigh.

“Why you asking me that?” His breathing was no longer steady but loud and harsh against the speaker.

“Why you ain’t answering?”

“Because I’m really fucking confused is why!” Ian exclaimed and the sound of heavy bass music started up in the background.

Mickey huffed through his nose and threw his head back. “Why have you got bruises on you?” He asked bluntly jumping directly to the point.

He was greeted with more silence and he wished he was actually in person with Gallagher right now so he could strangle him.

“Because of what happened on Friday.”

Mickey was silent then in the hopes he would expand to give an explanation but when he didn’t he grunted anxiously, “Which was?”

A deep intake of breath on the end of the line, “It had nothing to do with Alberto.”

He was so fucking relived he could have cried and he let out the breath he felt he’d been holding throughout the whole conversation. But he couldn’t just leave it there now that he knew Alberto wasn’t involved. Hell, it could still be someone else in the company.

“Has it got anything to do what you were raging about in my office?” His brow knotted as he was hit with another thought, “The thing you thought I was involved with?”

“The moment I left your office I knew you had nothing to do with it.”

“To do with what?”

There was the creak and whine of springs and the ruffle of fabric and it sounded like Ian had just collapsed on a bed, “It was just a couple of fucking assholes who decided to use me as their punching bag okay!” He barked.

He didn’t know what to say, all he knew was that that sense of relief buzzed a little hard in his chest.

He thought over the new information, and what it told him: He hadn’t been sexually assaulted. He hadn’t been raped. He hadn’t been molestered. Mickey didn’t see eye to eye with the guy, but _no one,_ not a single soul _,_ deserved any of that treatment. He wouldn’t even wish it on his worst enemy. It may have sounded weird, but Mickey was actually glad that the man has just been beaten up – because it meant that the other possibility, that he had been sexually assaulted, hadn’t happened. Of the two, having a beat down was the lesser of two evils.

“fuck...is that why you weren’t at work?”

“Yeah Alberto wouldn’t exactly want to look at me when I’m damaged.”

Mickey didn’t say anything because he knew that was true, but the idea still made him shift uneasily on the couch. A few moments of awkward silence passed by before he decided ask the question burning on his tongue, “You thought I ordered a hit on you?”

Ian groaned tiredly, “I heard a lot of talk about you...and it’s not like you hadn’t been threatening me on daily basis and just generally treating me like shit.”

Guilt raked through his body and his mouth soured. He hated that he couldn’t deny it. He hated that it was true.

“And I thought...I dunno it was dark but I caught a glimpse of tattooed knuckles and it reminded me of yours and I thought maybe, fuck it was like a gang thing or something? And I just jumped to conclusions.”

Mickey nursed a warm beer against his chest, taking a sip of it to fill the silence. He wanted to say something to address how he had been treating Ian, but he couldn’t find the words. So he settled for ones less than adequate. “You know who the fuckhead’s were?”

“No. But they...they said something along the lines of teaching me a lesson or some shit, which reminded me of what you had said in the break room about lesson number one. Another reason I thought you might be involved.”

“Fuck. I uh, I didn’t do this.”

“I know. I knew when I saw the confusion on your face.” His breathing picked up again raggedly and he sounded so drained compared to the voice of the buzzed man who had picked up the phone. He thought he heard someone call Ian’s name faintly and then the same squeaking noise of the bed springs. “Look I gotta’ go. I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Before Mickey got a chance to say anything more the line went dead. Ian had already gone.

 

* * *

 

By the time the clock had struck midnight, Mickey was curled up in bed, glasses on (because yes, to his dismay he needed glasses when he was working) the sheets pulled up tight around his shoulders. His journal lying in his lap, his pencil twiddling between his fingers.

He stared down at the entry he had just made.

A rough liner sketch of a torso. It had no face, and no legs, it was just the middle section of the human form. The trunk. It started with a slim neck curving to meet two shoulders, then travelling down to two long strong arms resting either side of a defined smooth chest where freckles scattered across nipples and muscles. Drifting off and ending just below hips with elegant indents.

Bruises blossomed across every inch of the figure.

He dated the top corner of the page, like he always did. And then below the abused torso he drew one swift and definite question mark.

 

* * *

 

 

Gallagher wasn’t at work on Friday.

Only this time, Mickey understood why. The bruises still needed time to heal.

He went to the break room just after lunch when everyone had already cleared out and made his way over to the window where Ian’s chair was still sat. He pulled and shoved it all the way back across the room until it was sat back in it original place – next to Mickey’s.

 

* * *

 

 

 Light streamed in like the presence of some divine power through the orange tinted skylight over Revs and bathed the room with warmth and life.

It wasn’t exactly a good reflection of how Mickey felt. He didn’t really know how he felt, but it wasn’t warm and full of life.

Claude was sprawled out on the sofa opposite him, his long gangly legs kicked out over the arm and his hands cradling the guitar that rested on his stomach. He was strumming as it loosely.

“So,” The chauffer started, breaking the comfortable silence between them. “My sister’s getting hitched next soon.”

“To that scruffy bearded dude you always bitching about?”

“Yes, that very scumbag.”

“Nice way to talk ‘bout your brother-in-law.”

“My sister is the one marring him she’s the one who’s got to like him.” And his voice actually hardened around his words.

Mickey frowned because it was unusual for him to hear Claude express hostility towards anyone. The man was typically the male embodiment of mother Teresa. For even him to express disgust towards his sister’s fiancé, he must be bad news.

“Anyway,” He began again, “I need someone to keep me a sane.”

“Right...is this going anywhere dude ‘cus time really is money?” He replied glancing down at his watch and tisking because it had some work to get on with back home.

“Asshole.” Claude smirked.

“Never pretended I was anything but.” Mickey shrugged in response.

“You’re the homie I want keeping my sane, okay.”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you!” He said throwing out his arm and jabbing a finger in Mickey’s direction.

Mickey stuttered unsurely. Apart from seeing each other at work, where they sometimes shared lunch together and had impromptu kick backs at Rev’s they had never done anything else – that was as far as their friendship went. Going from that to attending a wedding with the guy, that sounded like a huge step. One he wasn’t sure he was ready for. He didn’t have proper friends. He’d never had them back in the south side either. And though that had always just been something he’d accepted and assured himself was for the best because heck he preferred his own company anyway and didn’t need anyone else...perhaps the problem wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ friends. But he didn’t know _how_ to have friends. The thought of anyone ever getting close to him on a personal level was a terrifying one and therefore he’d always convinced himself that it was for that reason he couldn’t and shouldn’t have friends. His instinct was to always push and close and block. Never accept or pull or open.

His hesitance spoke volumes.

“Look this isn’t a meet the family kinda thing, you don’t even have to look at them if you don’t want too. I’m going to playing DJ most of the night anyway. You can sit and drink all the quality booze and like, have your wild way with the bridesmaid in the bathroom. I don’t care! I just need someone there who’s not gonna look at me like...” He trailed off and the way he shuffled on the sofa told Mickey he was stopping himself from saying something he would regret. By the sounds of it Claude didn’t get on with his family.

Mickey had always vaguely known this from the tone he addressed any of them with or how he avoided using their name or even mentioning them at all unless it was essential. He knew what that felt like, to feel out of sorts with the very people you grew up with. The detachment and cold hatred wasn’t a foreign concept to him. Blood meant nothing to Mickey, it didn’t mean a goddamn thing. There were only two people in his life that he felt _anything_ for that were bound to him by blood. Mandy being one. And well the other he couldn’t really consider to be ‘in his life’ anyway. That little baby boy was long gone.

Maybe it was for that reason he felt what was originally a resounding no creep into a maybe.

“Someone’s gonna think I’m you fucking date.” He mumbled.

“You’re the straightest thing on two legs, Mickey. No one’s going to think that. Also, they at least know me to have better taste than a grumpy, tattooed hustler.”

Mickey faked annoyance, flipping him the bird and shifted from where he was slumped on his sofa to face away from him.

“Is that a yes? Can it be a yes?” He had his mouth hanging open with a small smile, an expectant glint in his eye. “You can have free drinks for a week?” He added. Mickey looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “Two weeks.”

He squinted his eyes at him, “Text me the details and I’ll think about it.”

Claude practically jumped out his seat, pumping his hand in the air with a whoop of triumph. He strummed down sharply on the guitar like a wannabe rock star.

After bitch about with Claude and having the man fill him in or the general situation that was his sister’s wedding Mickey went home and managed to finish some of the work he had withstanding. It was mostly just paperwork and doing backups and checking over some of the transactions that had been made over the past week. Once he’d finished with that, he put aside the rest of the day to plan for Greenwell.

Sunday had been even less eventful. He’d called Mandy before she headed out for her night classes at College to run over some arrangements he’d finalised for Greenwell.

He’d spent the rest of the day locked up in his apartment doing what he was always doing, working. His job pretty much dominated his life.

He’d thought about a certain Redhead in the quite moments that drew out between each song that played off his iTunes.

He thought about how he’d had slammed him against a wall when he’d been covered in bruises. That must have really fucking hurt.

That night he made another entry in his journal: A biro drawing of Claude draped over the sofa at Rev’s like he had been when he asked him to come to his sister wedding. Beneath the sketch he wrote _progress..._

 

* * *

 

 Gallagher was already in the break room on Monday when Mickey walked in at lunch time. He was slouching in his chair and resting an untouched, and what seemed cold, cup of coffee on his knee. Some of his hair was falling forwards into his face and his eyes were cast in shadow, purple and blue tinting the pale skin underneath them. He looked shattered.

Some of the people already in the room were eyeing Ian warily as they talked quietly amongst themselves. Mickey thought he caught someone shooting the boy a look that could have been disgust, but it was gone before he could think about it. He’d probably been seeing things he thought.

Mickey pushed himself across the room to his own chair. Plonking himself down he decided to just dive in head first into what was undoubtedly going to be a ridiculously awkward conversation.

“Hey.” He muttered and it sounded a little forced.

Ian didn’t reply at first which made him think he hadn’t heard him, or maybe he was ignoring him, but then he was shifting his head and focusing his gaze at some random point in Mickey’s general direction. Pointedly not meeting his eyes it seemed.

“How did you get my number?” he finally asked and though his behaviour may have suggested it, he didn’t sound angry. Just confused.

“I have everyone’s number.” Mickey said, then realised that sounded weird and added, “Everyone who has anything remotely to do with this place anyway.”

Ian didn’t look convinced as he frowned at the carpet.

“I just have a wonderful amount of access to a wonderful amount of information.” Mickey added on even though the comment was equally ambiguous.

It took a while for Ian to reply. “That doesn’t sound dangerous at all.”

“Oh, granted, it’s very dangerous, but that’s what makes it all the more fucking wonderful.”

Ian pushed the hair out of his eyes and his lip twitched in what might have been a smirk. “And what about a little something called privacy?”

“Sorry, didn’t you get the memo? They don’t have that in the twenty-first century.” Mickey apologised sarcastically, though there was no heat in it. His civil manner was his way of quickly scoping out the situation with Gallagher, diffusing any lingering tension from their phone call (‘cause lets be real if he was going to have to spend time with the guy he would at least like to feel comfortable around him) and then get the fuck on with his life.

“Mmm, yet you still seem to remain awfully allusive.”

Mickey wanted to say he could say the same about him, but just shrugged proudly, “It’s a talent.”

“You couldn’t even tell me Mandy was your sister?”

“I didn’t say she _wasn’t_ my sister.” He replied stubbornly but he was mostly just confused with himself too about why he’d done that.

“Yeah well it was fuckin’ obvious once I saw her. You’re like identical twins.”

Mickey couldn’t deny that. He and Mandy were so obviously related. Same light blue icy eyes. Hair so dark brown it was practically black. Sickly white skin. Mandy somehow managed to pull that contrast of elements together and look really bloody beautiful. He’d always felt he couldn’t say the same for himself.

“So, uh, your bruising healing up?”

Ian looked at him for the first time his eyes rounded. “You give a fuck?”

Mickey could feel his eyes still on him but he didn’t look up to meet them when he answered, “That you turn up to work to do your job, yeah I give a fuck. It keeps Alberto of my fuckin’ back when he’s not wound up like a corkscrew.”

“Right,” Ian sighed quietly and his attention glided back to his neglected coffee “Of course.”

Mickey realised that was the wrong thing to say. The practically living and breathing heavy presence of awkwardness between him and Gallagher swelled.

God, if he wanted to achieve some workplace peace he was going to have to try a lot fucking harder and stop being so defensive. He didn’t know if he was capable of that, but if he wanted things to settle between the two of them so they could just be colleges or whatever and he could move the fuck on to bigger issues, he was going to have to try.

The opportunity arouse again as Mickey was taking the lift down to the ground floor at the end of the day.

Just before the doors slammed shut a pale long arm strung out between them, an exasperated voice shouting “hold the door!”

Gallagher somehow managed to look even more exasperated once he realised it was Mickey in the lift.

Mickey for the second time that day initiated conversation, to the escort’s evident surprise. “Anyone given you the low down on Greenwell?”

He realised his behaviour was probably very confusing for Ian. Having Mickey hate him and avoid him, then suddenly getting all up in his grill over a phone call in the middle of the night, and finally making an effort to be anything but flat out rude. It was confusing for Mickey too.

“Big party. Lots of wine. Lots of people. That’s basically all I know.”

“Well Christ, it’s a good thing you know me then.”

“Really? And why’s that?” He didn’t sound like he was actually looking for an answer, but Mickey provided one anyway.

“Please,” Mickey lent against the side of the lift in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. “I’m practically one of its founding fathers.” And Ian snorted.

“See, that not quite what I heard.”

“A little birdie told you differently?” he asked and Ian nodded smugly.

“You should learn not to listen to fuckin’ gossip.”

“And trust you instead?” His words sounded light hearted, but his tone suggested they were in search of more than just a light hearted answer. He was searching for something _more_. A question within a question.

“nah, didn’t say that.” He cleared his throat, “Official lesson number two,” He couldn’t help but glance down at Ian’s clothed body and picture the bruises that the fabric veiled from a different lesson of a different time and from different people. “Don’t trust anyone around here.”

And then the lift stilled and the doors glided open.

Ian voice dropped and he looked at him seriously. Mickey’s chest tightened, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Zara beamed at them and waved timidly as they passed her desk to exit the building. “Evening Mr Wilder, Mr Milkovich.”

Ian waved back like the polite motherfucker he was with a warm “Later, Zara.” but Mickey just nodded once with a kink of his eyebrow.

They were outside the building before Mickey spoke again.

“That chick’s got a serious hard on for you.”

Ian practically chocked on thin air and sputtered a laugh. “She’s just sweet.”

“Or she’s just horny as fuck.”

“I know this might sound like an alien concept to you, but people can be nice without ulterior motives.” He retorted as both of them stood paused on the sidewalk, neither of them turning to leave.

It made him wonder if being nice to Gallagher to clear the air between them was an ulterior motive – he decided it was because he wasn’t being nice to him because he wanted to be. He wasn’t. He really wasn’t.

“Gallagher what the fuck did I just tell you! Don’t trust anyone.”

“Ah fuck off.” And Ian dropped his head to hide a silent chuckle, but Mickey noticed.

Ian somehow popped a smoke up out of seemingly nowhere and began to light up. Mickey looked away from the sight of him slipping the fag between his pink lips because he really didn’t want to be caught looking at Ian’s lips. He’d known Ian smoked, having seen him with fags on him before, but that was the first time he was actually seeing him smoke them. It was quite a sight to behold, even if he would never admit it.

“So about Greenwell,” Ian picked up again. “You gonna explain it to me?”

“Now?” Mickey said taken aback.

Ian shifted further away like he was about head off. “Nah I got practice now. I could give you a call, after eight sometime?”

Mickey went to ask about practice for what, but stopped himself too taken aback by the thought of Ian wanting to call him. He was most certainly not having another phone call with Gallagher. Just because he was being civil, didn’t mean he wanted to cooperate with the guy after work hours. That was his own personal time.

“That’s fucking effort. Why not tomorrow?” _At work_ , he added silently, where they had to see each other and not because they had made a conscious decision to.

“Got plans with Alberto tomorrow.” He took another step to move off. “After eight, okay, just keep your phone on you.” And then he was turning away from Mickey and disappearing amongst the crowded streets of the city before he even had a chance to say anything on the matter – and Mickey found himself wordlessly agreeing to something he never asked for.

 

* * *

 

 If Mickey thought the text he’d received a view days ago from Mr Harrison had knocked the air out of him, it hadn’t seen nothing yet.

**_Unknown number_ ** **_7:34PM:_ ** _Yevgeny and I come to the city for Summer. Chance for you to meet him, no? He asks about you. Don’t fuck up or be a piece of shit father._

Mickey heavily over used the word, but if there was any time to scream the word fuck from the rooftops as he tore his shirt open like the goddamn hulk, it was then.

His breathing uncontrollably accelerated as he staggered out on to his balcony, he could hear it in his own ears and he could feel it with the rise and fall of his chest and the way his heartbeat was suddenly pulsing through him like a gun on rapid fire.

He was going to be seeing his son.

_Did he want to see his son?_

Fuck fuck _FUCK_.

Yevgeny. That name that sounded so foreign on his tongue. Yet the thought of him was contrastingly so familiar. Not that he necessarily chose to think about him. It just sort of happened. The same way he would find himself with a drink in his hand, he would find his thoughts drifting back to a baby boy with blue eyes.

Mickey had only been twenty at the time when Svetlana had fallen pregnant, as if his life wasn’t already enough of a shit show, and that was just about the cherry on top. Fucked for life had suddenly become ten thousand times more factual.

It had been terrify and sickening and everything Mickey had wanted to escape from.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore. Not really. He was older, and possibly wiser, though that was questionable with the way a certain redhead had been clouding his thoughts against his better judgment...but that was irrelevant.

He was also considerably more wealth, having some serious back on him that he hadn’t had at the time. It was enough to support the kid, the mother and himself _very_ comfortably.

He had only seen the kid in the first few months of his birth, and then everything had just gotten out of control and his world had started to crumble around him. Three years later found him and Mandy living in the North Side, which seemed frighteningly close to ‘home’, and working full time at Red House Royal.

It had been a future not even some great voodoo mystic fortune teller crazy lady could have predicted.

The only thing he had brought with him from his old life was Mandy, she was permanent, that was a given. But everything else had been in some way mentally or literally burned, crushed, trashed...well almost everything.

The idea of something from his old life over lapping into his newly and carefully constructed new one felt like a bullet in the head.

Gallagher, true to his word, did call. But Mickey didn’t pick up.

As his stage name lit up the phone screen Mickey couldn’t help but feel like his two very separate, completely contrasting worlds were about to collide head on.

 

* * *

 

_They told him, "Don't you ever come around here._

_Don't wanna see your face. You better disappear."_

The flashing image of curled lips around beer stained teeth pierced at Mickey’s memory. Heat filled words pounded against the walls of his mind, echoing on and on and on. The way they had that day. The words spilling over and out of that livid, ghostly white mouth.

_The fire's in their eyes and their words are really clear_

_So beat it, just beat it_

_You better run, you better do what you can_

His legs pounded down harder on the treadmill his muscles burning with the strain.

_Don't wanna see no blood, don't be a macho man_

Fuck. Blood. So much blood.

_You wanna be tough, better do what you can_

_So beat it._

Lost momentarily in the mind numbing daze running often brought him he lost the ability to concentrate on the words of the song thumping in his ears. Until he came rushing back, feeling worse than before.

_They're out to get you, better leave while you can_

_Don't wanna be a boy, you wanna be a man_

The lyric caused his lung to seize up and he thought he was going to have to stop to catch his breath...but he pushed himself on.

_You wanna stay alive, better do what you can_

_So beat it, just beat it_

Stay alive. Stay _alive_. That’s all he’d ever tried to do, what he’d had based his decisions and life choices on. Choosing to hide his sexuality. Familiarizing himself with firearms. Pursing his natural ability to fight dirty. Keeping consciously quite. Head down, eyes averted. Out of sight, out of mind- and that way, alive. Even on that day, that had been his priority. Life. Living and breathing and _being_. It had made him selfish, it always had. _You have to show them that you're really not scared You're playin' with your life, this ain't no truth or dare_

_They'll kick you, then they beat you, then they'll tell you it's fair_

“You deserve it you little shit. This is your fault. You deserve to be punished”

_Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it_

His feet slammed hard, faster, sharper.

_Beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it_

Arms held taut swinging either side of his body.

_Just beat it, beat it_

_Beat it, beat it, beat it_

When Mickey clambered off the treadmill and slouched into his bathroom for a shower his hairline was soaked with sweat and his legs were limp and aching. He’d pushed himself harder than he ever had before. Running with all the force and effort he had inside him. Though once in the shower, as he watched soap suds slide of his body and down the drain, he still felt in some sacred, child like part of himself, that he was still running.

 

* * *

 

Just as Ian had informed him, he was busy with Alberto all day Tuesday. Mickey wanted to believe he was okay with that, but strangely he had felt the distraction of the redhead would be a welcome one. Without any form of distraction, Mickey was just left to his thoughts – which for him was never a safe place to be.

“Hey, Mick.” A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder and Mickey spun round fiercely, jumping away from the unwelcome contact like an agitated animal – suddenly on guard.

But it was just Mandy.

“Wow!” His sister yelped as she too jumped back, shocked by his reaction. Then her whole face softened slowly as she looked him over – the tension held in his shoulders and fists, the alarmed look in his eyes, his slight breathlessness. “Mick, chill it’s just me.”

Mickey felt anything but chilled, though scared of frightening his sister, faked a sense of calmness - forcing himself to relax his shoulders.

“What’s got into you?” She forced a laugh as if to lighten the mood.

“Nothing.”

“Mickey?”

“Just stressed, works fucking stressing me out okay.”

She cocked a hip and rested her hand on it, eyeing him like she was trying to decide whether she believed him. “Wanna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing more to say.” He lied.

“Ok.” She shrugged and then paused, considering something. “You wanna come out with me tonight?”

“You’re going out on a _Tuesday_?”

“ _You’re_ judging me?” she shot back with a tilt of her head.

“Oi piss off, what’s that supposed to mean?!”

She crossed her arms over her chest and Mickey was momentarily distracted by how familiar the motion was to him in an unexpected way. It reminded him of their mother. “This is exactly why you need to come out with me.”

He mumbled down at the floor and it wasn’t even proper words just a mushy collection of curse words because he was mostly just caught up in distant memories of their mom. Which made him then thick of Svetlana. And eventually his kid.

“You seriously need to get laid.”

Mickey’s head shot up with wide eyes his eyebrows jumping all around his face in that crazy way that they always did. They really did have a mind of their own.

“Firstly you know fuck all about my sex life thank you very much. And secondly that’s exactly how it’s going to stay.”

She kinked an eyebrow and shoved his arm, “You’re weird.”

“ _You’re_ weird.” He harped back.

She smiled, “Fuck you.”

He tried to return the warmth; it wasn’t too hard with Mandy. “Fuck you too.”

And that was it. It was their weird way of checking in with each other, seeing if the other was okay and conveying that they were both there for one another. It suited both of them perfectly, as they weren’t the most comfortable paring with open affection.

Thoughout the day it become glaringly obvious to Mickey’s that he might as well have had _I’m having the shittiest of shit days_ written across his forehead with how easily everyone appeared to be sensing his mood.

Claude gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he parted ways with him after break and even Charlotte who usually kept her nose of his business asked him if everything was okay.

He hadn’t realised he was so easy to read, and the thought that he was just pissed him off a billion times more.

That evening, even after persuading Mandy he absolutely did not want to go out with her, he still happened to drink enough by himself in his apartment to achieve him the same awful hangover it would have got him anyway.

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s head pounded like a motherfucker on Wednesaday. He strongly regretted his ridiculous amount of alcohol consumption the night before, even the tatter of his fingers against the keyboard of his computer made his head ache.

He was shifting though the email responses he had received concerning Greenwell, slumped forward, glasses on, one elbow propped up on his desk his head resting in his hand. It practically felt like it was going to roll off.

He still hadn’t told anyone about the text he’d received from Svetlana, not that he’d felt he’d needed to tell anyone, but looking Mandy dead in the eye and pretending like he wasn’t mentally shitting himself every minute of the day felt faintly like lying.

He didn’t need to hide from Mandy, if anything, she would be really fucking supportive about the whole situation. But he didn’t know if he was ready for that – he couldn’t really grasp the concept that he would be meeting his kid again himself, let alone have someone else be aware of it.

Something about saying it out loud made the whole thing feel too real. At least if it stayed inside his head and in his thoughts alone he could pretended everything was just exactly the same as it always was.

The previous night, when he had been three sheets to the wind, he’d replied to the text asking for further details. Mostly because that had felt like the safe thing to do. If you don’t have an answer – just ask a question. He’d gone with asking where they would be staying.

Just as he started getting lost in thoughts of babies and mothers again there was a sudden firm knock at the door.

“Come in.” He croaked, cleared his throat, and then again repeated himself a little louder without bothering to look away from his computer screen, “Come in!”

He heard the door swing open and the tapping of footsteps coming over the threshold of the door.

“Hey.”

The greeting was in that deep, bold voice Mickey was slowly becoming accustomed to. It was a voice that he knew without even having to think about it.

Looking up he found Ian Gallagher standing in his office for the second time after the man had been hired. He looked fresher, more well rested than he had last time he had seen him. His eyes were less tired too, they sparkled more like they usually did.

“Something up?” Mickey mumbled, suddenly feeling self-conscious he pushed his glasses up further on his nose.

Ian wavered and looked back at the door like maybe he regretted coming, but then he seemed to reach a decision and stepped further into the room.

“You get rid of my chair again?”

Mickey’s hands stilled mid-type and his mind fell blank. “What?”

That appeared to be everything the escort needed to know because he was nodding as if to himself and tapping his hand on his leg as he turned to leave, “Right, Okay. Thanks.”

Mickey kicked into action immediately.

“Hey!” He stretched his arm out in his direction in an attempt to stop him leaving, “Hey! Oi Gallagher get your ass back here.” He quickly regretted speaking so loud, his own voice causing the heavy lumping in his head to lurch, and seriously, fuck hangovers – but Ian paused with his hand on the doorknob, his back facing him.

He carried on, “What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?”

The redhead sighed and twisted round to face him, his expression guarded.

“Chair’s missing.” He stated and a ripple of annoyance crossed his features.

“ _Your_ chair?”

“Yeah. My goddamn chair.” He huffed and looked more irritated than before. There was something appealing in the way he looked all riled up.

Mickey resisted smirking and it was the first time he’d felt anything other than utterly glum all day, “You piss someone else off?”

Ian rolled his eyes dramatically looking very unamused. “Fuck if I know.”

Mickey saved the progress on his work and minimised his emails and then leant back in his smooth leather office chair. The kind of chair that made him feel fancy. Like maybe he fitted in there.

“Maybe it just got moved unintentionally, I mean everyone else around here kisses the ground you walk on.”

Ian didn’t seem to agree, his lips hardening in a straight line. That reaction didn’t seem to really make any sense to Mickey because he had seen the way people looked at Ian, a sense of awe and excitement. The girls practically squealed in his presence, and the guys checked him out in that way straight guys did when they felt they had competition – but were run of the mill, back slapping, fist pumping rowdy dudes around him anyway.

“Yeah, okay.” He replied not meeting Mickey’s eye and turned to leave for the second time.

“Wow Gallagher! You got no fuckin’ manners we’re in the middle of a conversation here.”

That got him a very quizzical look and an up turned corner of Ian’s mouth.

“People giving you shit?”

Ian avoided the question. “You mean like how you did?”

“ _Did_ is the key word there.” Mickey replied before falling silent and raising an expectant eyebrow to show he was waiting for an answer to his question.

Again the escort didn’t answer it. “Nah, look I got this.” And he met his eyes when he said that looking so confident and assure of himself. It sounded like a statement the boy used often.

“That’s not a fucking answer.” Mickey pointed out because Ian was very clearly avoiding having the discussion he was trying to initiate.

Ian didn’t say anything. His lips staying firmly sealed.

“Okay whatever suite yourself ass-hat, but look, human resources is just down the hall, you got a problem? You talk to them.”

Ian was looking at the floor but Mickey was almost sure he heard him mumble something that sounded like _whatever dad_ but he didn’t have time to call him out on it, because then he turned to leave again. Mickey didn’t stop him that time.

As he walked away he peered over his shoulder and hitched his eyebrow at Mickey smugly, his whole demeanour having changed, “Nice glasses.” And then he had disappeared out the door without another word.

Mickey felt the blush of embarrassment on his cheeks as he was left alone in his office. He didn’t know if was the hangover, or just being in Ian Gallagher’s presence, but he was worn out. He settled on blaming the hangover.

Throughout the day, Mickey suddenly found, know that he had been dropped the hint by the man himself, that he was slowly becoming more aware of the true feelings some of his other colognes held towards Ian.

He heard some ladies whispering about him in the hallway, trying to be all incognito but failing miserably. It was not the usual kind of whispering either where they were just being girly and gossiping and talking about getting some – or that’s at least what he assumed girls talked about in the company of each other, if Mandy was anything to go by. No, it was the cruel kind of whispering with sneers and bitch faces.

It reminded him of Monday in the break room when he thought he had seen someone look at Ian with disgut.

He brushed it off, but come lunch time when he was flipping through the channels of the Red Royal CCVT on the flat screen television in his office while he waited for Mandy to come and meet for lunch, he noticed something else weird.

He’d paused on the image that projected the view of the camera that was directly outside the spinning doors of the main entrance after noticing the flaming red of particular escorts ginger hair. Ian was just leaving the building, heading out to grab lunch, Mickey presumed, and a bunch of the regular guys that were often friendly with Ian were trailing behind him. Mickey distinguished some of the guys from their hair and clothes; he’d seen some of them head out to lunch with Ian before. Only know they trailed behind him.

Squinting his eyes Mickey peered closer as one of the men ran up behind Ian reaching out as if to grab something near his ear. Once he did he jolted back in line with the other men and they were all laughing (he assumed from the way they smiled with their mouth opening and closing) and bumping each other around on the sidewalk. It took a few seconds for Mickey to realise the guy had pinched the cigarette that had rested behind Ian’s ear, by then the redhead had stuttered to a halt on the pavement having sensed the interaction. But once he had turned round and seen the men, he had carried on walking as if nothing had happened.

Mickey sat gawking in his seat completely shocked that Ian hadn’t done anything, hadn’t defended himself. Those assholes deserved their asses kicking right fucking there and then on the street.

He felt an urge to go and do it himself, but it was none of his businesses and definitely not his problem. Even after having realised that, and concluding to not do anything (yet) he felt kinda shitty. But it wasn’t his place. And Gallagher wasn’t his responsibility.

When he went to the break room that evening, he noticed what Ian had already told him, his chair was missing. The space where it usually sat next to Mickey’s was empty and instead of it just having been shifted to another part of the room – it was completely gone. There could have been a completely reasonable and logical explanation for it, but having been a mastermind in sabotage himself, he felt there were more passive aggressive rootes to the act.

_Since when the fuck had people had a problem with Gallagher?_

Two more days passed and Mickey picked up on similar strange behaviour from the work place towards Ian: snide glances in his direction, leaving without him when they headed out for lunch. On the second day even his coffee mug was used by some stranger and then left out dirty on one of the kitchen tops.

And that was only what Mickey saw. He was one hundred percent sure there was a lot more going on that he didn’t know about.

What was maybe harder to watch was the way Ian shrugged off every single one of the attacks, pretending like he didn’t even notice. He spent his break’s hanging out with Mandy, not even entering the break room. And a hell of a lot more time in Alberto’s office, but obviously Alberto wasn’t complaining about that if the loud groans of pleasure he had heard coming from the room were any indication. Mickey made himself the promise to _never_ touch any surface in there ever again because the sheer thought of his bosses bare ass having touched it was enough to make him regret his lunch.

He was a strange thought that the bullying was getting to Mickey more than it was getting to Ian. He was almost certainly sure Gallagher hadn’t given any of them a reason to treat him like that, yet he took every single dig without some much as a sigh. Mickey just wanted to see him smash their fucking heads in – he was positively capable of it, those muscles bulging beneath his shirt weren’t just for show.

On Monday morning, when Mickey walked into the break room to find Ian’s mug smashed in the sink he was fuming.

The first second he got, which happened to be when he saw him getting out the lift situated outside of Mickey’s office, he pulled Ian aside and into his office. Slamming the door shut behind them.

Ian was eyeing him apprehensively because he had most literally _pulled_ Ian into his office by the cuff of his sleeve. The physical contact had been something that had just skipped his mind, he had been very preoccupied.

“uhhh...” Ian said looking puzzled because Mickey was just staring at him breathing rather heavily.

Then he thought he caught Ian’s eyes flicker suggestively, “You’re not going to slam me against the wall again are you?” and his bottom lip pulled into his mouth as he bit down on it.

Christ. It should be a crime against humanity for Ian Gallagher to bite his lip like that. It startled Mickey in consciousness.

“You need to do something about the pricks causing you trouble.”

All suggestiveness died in the space of a second and Ian’s face turned to look away from his, staring at some random space on the far wall. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Yeah, okay sure, gingerbread.” Mickey replied, voice thick with annoyance. “Now how about you cut the crap and sort them the fuck out.”

Ian didn’t say anything, being just as stubborn as he had been the other day.

“Don’t you pull that oblivious as shit act on me, I know you know what I’m talking about.”

Ian gritted his teeth, looking equally as irritated.

“I can’t do anything, Mickey. Nothing. I’ll lose my job.” He finally protested.

“Then beat them at their own game.” Mickey said slowly, sounding every bit as sinister as he felt with his voice dropping into a deeper tone.

Ian bit his lip again instead of replying and Mickey had to look away and rub at his nose because holy hell he could not look at him when he did that.

Then he hushed down also, adopting a quieter, deeper voice that made Mickey’s skin crawl. “What exactly are you imply?”

Mickey shrugged like he didn’t know, but he smirked like he did. “You think you can fight dirty, Gallagher?”

“Hmmm.” He murmured rubbing at his jaw.

“Or are you too much of a little fucking goody two shoes for that?”

Ian gawked at him with fake alarm, “Is that a challenge, Mr Milkovich?”

“Maybe.” Mickey made his way over to his chair to put some distance between them, feeling a little flustered, “Maybe not.” He plonked down in the seat and eyed the other man. “But if you’re up for it, it won’t get you fired.”

That seemed to throw Ian back into reality, and all teasing faded away as he leant against the wall closing his eyes. “You don’t know that. I can’t risk this job. Look it’s nothing anyway, their just being assholes and it’s sure to stop sooner or later.”

“Defiantly sooner if you teach them a lesson or two. Or five.”

He snapped abruptly and Mickey almost jumped in his seat, “Why are you even encouraging me on this?!”

Mickey put his hands up in surrender, taken aback. “Hey look I’m just an objective bystander who likes to see justice get fucking served alright.”

“You’re the one who told me not to trust anyone here. Why should I trust _you_. You were the one pulling shit on me not too long ago.”

And suddenly they were back to that, that reminder of how things had been before Ian had apologised.

“I didn’t pull shit on you!” He spluttered defensively even though it wasn’t true and they both knew it.

“You publicly humiliated me! We wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place if it wasn’t for you.”

“Fucks that supposed to mean?! I’m trying to help you out here for Christ’s sake!”

Ian pushed himself off the wall and moved over closer to the desk and Mickey could see his muscles tensing up under his shirt, it made his finger tips tingle. “It means you have no idea what kind of influence you have around here! These people, your colleges, they look up to you. You’re, like the second most powerful person on this floor, Mickey. The way you act is gonna have an influence on how they act because they want to impress you. They’re gonna follow your lead, because you’re the authority figure. So once you openly treated me like shit in front of them, they felt like they could and should do the same. You moved my chair, they fucking moved my chair.” He declared and even through his anger there was a vulnerability about him Mickey had never seen before.

Silence hung in the air between them.

Mickey didn’t meet Ian intense gaze he just looked down at his tattooed knuckles planted firmly on his desk. Maybe if he stared long enough Ian would just disappear. And this situation would disappear and he wouldn’t have to deal with anything.

He didn’t want to believe Ian; he didn’t want to have to accept the blame. He wanted to bitch and fight and scratch. He wanted to be the south side trash he was deep down that didn’t apologise for shit even if it was too a big green eyed boy with extraordinary hair and lips as red as berries.

People didn’t respect him.

_“You polesmoking queer!”_

People didn’t look up to him.

_“you worthless piece of shit.”_

No one ever wanted to impress him.

_“Get out of my fucking house you faggot!”_

Ian openly voice what Mickey was feeling. “You don’t believe me?” He scoffed.

He didn’t want to he didn’t want to he didn’t want to...but he did. It made perfect sense. When Mickey silenced his emotions and his personal feelings and looked at the facts and evidence – it made perfect sense.

Mickey clenched his hands around the desk, his knuckles tinged white. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“Yeah well maybe you need to be more aware of the consequences of your actions.” Ian replied blankly.

The man’s words from a few days ago echoed against the walls of his mind. “ _You’ve been a dick to me. A real dick.”_ He felt a sudden rush of guilt as they sank in. He stood up slowly, running a hand through his hair.

He’d been right when he said that. Shit, he’d been such a dick. He almost couldn’t understand why he had. What had made he feel the impulse to act that way? Well, yes, he knew the reason he had been telling himself, blaming it all on the shit show that was the applicant day. But that sounded like, even though it pained him to admit it to himself, an excuse.

“Fuck– I...uh...”

He shot a look at Ian, who looked back at him expectantly. A challenge of his own in his eyes as his chin jutted out and his eyes narrowed.

He inhaled deeply, swallowing his pride. The room suddenly felt very, very small.

Mickey couldn’t remember the last time he had actually, legitimately apologised for anything. But there he was, at the hands of the redheaded devil, about to break that habit.

“I’m...sorry.” His voice was quite enough to be a whisper.

Ian didn’t say anything. He was still waiting. Mickey didn’t know why that made him carry on, he could have left it at those two words alone – but he didn’t. He pushed on.

“That I treated you like shit. And that I held a stupid fucking grudge. And uh- fuck. Just...I dunno Alberto asked me to look after you and I’ve done fuck all to accept that request.”

He tried to sound confident and keep his voice even, but the little gasp for breath he made half way through let him down.

“You can fuck who you like. And where you like. That’s shouldn’t have been any of my business or something for me to pull judgements on. And I shouldn’t have talked shit about your job because I get it, now, that you care about yours in the same way I care about mine.”

His eyes locked with Ian’s than, after having been unable to look at him directly though his apology. The boy was smiling. An earnest, bring smile with gleaming white teeth and little creases at the corners of his eyes and little dimples either side of his mouth.

Mickey had never seen anyone smile like that. He was honest to God mesmerised.

“Okay.” Ian said, that smile hitching a fraction higher and it was almost blinding but Mickey didn’t want to look away.

He almost felt like laughing, because that was exactly what he himself had said to Ian outside the tailors. Maybe that’s why Ian had said it. _Okay_. One single word of acceptance.

Maybe apologise weren’t such a bad thing, if he got to see smiles like that at the end of them. Maybe he didn’t always have to fight to get his away. Maybe, he didn’t hate Ian Gallagher even a little bit. Maybe not even at all.

And it struck him then that something very serial has just happened as he had finally said the words he’d been hold back. The problem that had been like an iron rod holding them apart, that blanket of awkwardness, that sense of a shadow in the room, a presence hovering over them...it was gone. It had evaporated into thin air.

There was nothing left between them then as they stood in Mickey’s office with Ian smiling at him like an idiot and Mickey frowning like an idiot. Nothing left to hold onto.

They had a blank page.

A fresh slate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO YO THINGS ARE FINALLY GETTING SOMEWHERE.  
> Also...Yev and Svetlana.  
> I just wanted to say a big thank you for all the support and feedback I've had for this AU it honestly means so so much and I couldn't tell you enough how much it warms my heart, thank you <3


	7. Moral Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tension crackled like electricity in the air between them and Mickey caught Ian’s adams apple bob as he swallowed silently his eyes trailing to Mickey’s lips."

_Don’t be a piece of shit father._

That was what Svetlana had said in her first text. Which granted was a fairly simple request. Seven words. One favour. Well, knowing Svetlana it was more of a command. And yeah he kinda felt like keeping his balls if that was alright so he wasn’t about to get on the wrong side of her.

And fuck if Mickey didn’t know a thing or two or eighty about piece of shit fathers. He could write a fucking dissertation on the subject. He could become a professor who specialised in ‘piece of shit fathers 101’ and teach a goddamn class on it at college.

So yes, in theory it was very simple what the clear cut statement meant.

Don’t do it, don’t think it, don’t breathe it – just _don’t._

Simple, yes?

_No._

There was nothing simple about being reunited with your kid after three years of radio silence. Nothing simple about meeting your ex-wife and the woman who shared the most traumatic experiences of your life with you. Nothing simple about falling face first into fatherhood. For the second time. Nothing fucking simple.

Something else that was turning out to be beyond simple. Ian Gallagher. He was maybe the definition of complex, because holy shit was Ian Gallagher a man of many layers. Standing outside the break room with him on Tuesday morning further confirmed that idea.

“So should we like plan something?” Ian asked apprehensively, his hands twitching by his sides and his eyes slightly rounded in that alarmed, innocent, doe like manner. Mickey almost felt like laughing it was such a strange sight to see from the boy. Mickey had literally seen him send Alberto into a needy fifteen year old virgin with just the curl of his lip alone. He had seen him stride like a runway model with his jacket throw over his shoulder through the hallways. So confident and bold and just oozing all things sex. He’d seen him lean against Alberto’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest in that way that made his biceps bulge and smirk like it was his own goddamn office. And now here he was, looking as innocent as a baby puppy.

“Planning’s for pussies.” Mickey stated with a tilt of his head as if that was obvious and he expected better from Ian.

Cocking his head back at him in the same way, Ian replied, “You sound like my little brother. When he was twelve.”

“Lesson number three, Gallagher, follow your instincts. Trust you gut like it’s your best fucking friend. Emotions and thinking over time cloud intuition.”

Ian looked vaguely surprised; his brow creasing with his mouth hanging open in that a half smile that he did when he was amused. “Wow, Mickey. That was kinda poetic.”

“Yeah well what can I say, William and I were pretty tight.”

“William?”

“Shakespeare, dumbass.”

Ian scoffed a laugh, a hand on his stomach, “Oh right, of course. How could I forget? I’m such an idiot.” He said rolling his eyes.

“An idiot? Well, if you insist.” Mickey scratched at his lip, noticing how Ian didn’t look so anxious anymore.“Now come on idiot, we don’t have all fucking day.” He motioned for Ian to follow him into the break room.

Mickey took no time sitting himself down in his seat. He watched as Ian walked over slowly, his hands back to fidgeting at his sides as he eyed the other colleagues wearily. Some of them definitely noticed him, their heads snapping over in his direction. It was the first time he’d been back to the break room since the bullying had started up, and his return was only meet with frosty stares. It made something cold twist in Mickey’s stomach.

“Sit.” He commanded through his teeth quietly so only Ian could hear.

Ian eyes flicked over to the chair sitting opposite Mickey’s, noticing it for the first time. It was Ian’s chair, the one that had disappeared. He looked alarmed, but then his expression softened into something different. Something Mickey couldn’t read, but he sat down anyway.

“You do this?” He asked indicating the reappearance of the chair, drumming his fingers against its arm.

“I arranged it.” Mickey shrugged, because it really didn’t mean anything. It didn’t.

“Is it the same one?”

“You gonna be fussy about it?”

Ian pouted his bottom lip like a small child and Mickey’s eyes immediately and unintentionally fixed on it. It was plump, red and moist from Ian’s mouth.

“I was very fond of that chair.”

“Quite bitching already, you and I got assholes to punish.”

And Mickey wasn’t joking. He’d decided, somewhat to easily, in that moment when Ian had told him his actions had been the initial cause of all the shit Ian was getting, that he had to do something to fix it.

It had been like a chain reaction, a set of domino’s knocking into each over. Mickey had acted like the nudge that sets the first domino flying into the next, he had set these events of workplace bullying into action by triggering them. God, he felt like such a dick. Professionalism might not have been in his nature, but it was about fucking time he tried his hand at it. And so what if his profession involved a shit load of drug trafficking, lying, manipulation, some solid torture every now and then. Even if he was breaking the law on an minute bases and scamming over his own government - with all those minor details aside, Mickey could _at least_ try and handle a bit of moral responsibility. A little. A crumb. A speck. Maybe Ian Gallagher could be his speck of moral responsibility. Maybe he could handle that.

“Mickey.” Ian said, giving him a pointed look, the kind a mother gave a child when they were having a fit about something they’d already discussed many times. It was simple; it was a reminder, only it carried a dash of warning.

“Curtis.” Mickey replied in the same mothering tone.

Ian leaned closer, arms resting on his knees as he lowered his voice so only they could hear. “No one is punishing anyone. Seriously, I’m not gonna get fired over this shit, this is the best job I’ve had in a long time.”

“You were the one asking if we needed to plan anything before coming in here.”

“Yeah because I –” He cut off, exasperated and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. Mickey didn’t urge him to finish his sentence, sensing how strongly the escort felt about the situation. “If anything is going to be done, it’s going to be done my way.” He said instead, sounding determined.

“Well you better fucking think of something to do then before that ginger mop of yours is being used to wipe the goddamn floor.”

“I’ll show you wiping the goddamn floor in a minute if you don’t shut up.” He snapped, but his eyes were wide fake annoyance and the dimple on his cheek indented at the corner as his mouth was twitching up, like he was resisting a smile, and it told Mickey he didn’t mean it.

 

* * *

 

 

Alberto looked just about ready to murder a motherfucker as he and Mickey rode in silence at the back of the limo. It was incredibly restlessly unnerving.

He could hear Claude humming quietly to himself as he drove and with each passing moment of the continued soft singing Alberto’s knuckles tinted whiter against the leather seat as he pierced his nails deep into the material.

“Something eating you up? Cus’ if you got something that needs sorting I’ll fuckin’ sort it.” Mickey said, attempting to diffuse the very clear tension in the man, which if not subdued would only build up and then explode unexpectedly in some disastrous way. It usually did.

Alberto took a deep breath through his nose and his eyes narrowed as he licked his lip quickly; looking darkly pleased with his right hand mans loyalty to him.

“Madame Rouge....”

“You need me to take care of her?”

He chuckled coldly to himself, before meeting his eyes to Mickey’s. “Precisely so.” He flipped his hand in the air and Claude’s humming drifted to a stop instantly. The sudden silence was like an unwelcome visitor. “We’ve just been informed that she will be attending with her husband to Greenwell and as you can imagine that...complicates things.” And that explained to Mickey everything he needed to understand. His jaw clenched instantly as he tried to ignore the pickling discomfort in his hands. He nodded once sharply.

“How long can you give us?”

Mickey scratched his brow, knowing the answer he wanted to hear, and as always, he gave it to him. “However long you need.”

“Make sure to log the CCTV footage from it, oh that baby will make sweet blackmail material.”

Hiding his grimace he nodded again. “Sure thing.” He forced a laugh, “Can add it to the collection.”

“Can add her to the collection.” Alberto winked, raising a brow suggestively before he broke into a crude laugh, slapping Mickey’s knee like he understood his own words only too well.

Mickey changed the conversation quickly, not appreciating the direction it had taken. “Uh, so does Wilder know what he’s gotta do?”

Alberto smiled wide, his teeth glinting in the dimmed space. “He knows everything.”

“ _Everything_ everything.”

“He knows enough, if that what everything everything means. Come on boy you’re not five year old here use your words so I can at least understand you properly!” He barked, his voice having risen higher with each passing word, punching the air between them with a crack.

Mickey was careful not to flinch, used to these random outbursts of anger directed at him and stared at his hands for the rest of the journey. At the end of the day, no matter what he thought, when it came to him and Alberto, it would never be his place to say.

 

* * *

 

 

“Go go go!” Mickey practically pushed Ian into the break room, his palm placed flat on the middle of his back, and shit, Mickey could feel the rock hard muscles beneath his t-shirt and the warmth of his skin radiating _through_ the fucking material on to his hand. It made him want to pull his hand away but also push firmer against the plains of him all at the same time. He settled for pulling away quickly as Ian moved cautiously into the room. He was still uncomfortable in the presence of many of their colleagues, especially the ones who caused him particular trouble.

Mickey was only aware of the petty shit they had pulled on him, he was too anxious to ask about the other stuff he didn’t know about, but he knew there must have been more he didn’t know – Ian wouldn’t be so fazed otherwise.

The boy made his way for his chair but Mickey in a last minute decision cut in front of him swiftly, stopping the escort in his tracks and he sat himself down in Ian’s chair hurriedly.

Gallagher’s face shifted through expressions, transforming from one to the next like a stop motion movie. First alarm. Then confusion. Then the most intimidating bitch face Mickey had ever seen. And he had seen Mandy’s. Ian shifted his posture and set his jaw as if to say ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ as he towered over him.

Mickey jerked his head in the direction of his own chair, indicating silently what he wanted him to do. Ian’s brow only furrowed and Mickey felt like kicking him in the shines.

As Mickey shifted his gaze between the redhead and his own chair obviously, Ian suddenly seemed to catch on to what he was suggesting and cautiously placed himself down in Mickey’s chair as if it may burn his ass, watching him the whole time warily as if this was all a joke and he was bound to change his mind. He didn’t. And soon Ian was relaxing in his chair with a cocky grin, looking like he fucking owned it with his strong arms draped over the arms of the chair and his jeans pulled tight around his legs as they splayed out in front of him, the tall fucker.

The small act defiantly had the attention of the whole room. Mickey’s intentions precisely. He disguised a small proud smile behind his hand.

It was straightforward – letting Ian sit in Mickey’s chair was a simple yet drastic sign of respect. No one got in his way, which meant no one sat in his chair – unless they wanted to get their fucking kneecaps broken that is. So the fact that he had openly allowed Ian to sit there in his presence was the best, most direct message to everyone else that he could think of. If Mickey could publicly display that he wasn’t messing with Ian no one, well then maybe no one else would either.

The two of them dwelled in the attention of the room for a few long minutes, sitting silently, pretending that everything was as normal and ordinary as the grass is green. They all tried to be inconspicuous with their glaring, but that was failing miserably, and the whispering didn’t help either. Finally the moment passed after what felt longer than expected and people turned their attention away from the two men, allowing them to drop their guard fractionally.

“I think I could get use to this.” Ian said, stretching himself out further in the chair.

“Hell to the fucking no, don’t you even think about getting comfortable there.”

Ian’s fingers pattered on the arm of the chair and he looked the way the kids at school did when they were about to do something rebellious. Devilish. It was an enticing look on him, and Mickey felt himself fluster before the man even spoke.

“Why? You gonna come over here and stop me, tough guy?”

“I’ll come over there and whip your fuckin’ ass.”

Ian raised a single eyebrow at him and then quirked his mouth, his mind clearly not taking the threat for what it was. “I did that for a client once. He loved it.” he said and Mickey immediately flushed what must have been a deep shade of pink at the realisation of Ian’s words and well, holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck.

Ian Gallagher had whipped a man’s ass before, and not in the I’ll-kill-you way, but the I-own-your-pretty-little-ass way, as in the I’ll-push-you-to-the-edge-and-then-fuck-you way and Mickey was one hundred percent sure hell would freeze over before that mental image had even drifted from his mind. Mickey was even surer he was going to be having full blow graphic dreams about that though, and shit if that didn’t worry him.

“Well fuck if that wasn’t something I didn’t need to know. I’ve got enough trauma from hearing you get your rocks off with my boss as it is thank you very much.”

“Expect he’s the only one getting anything off.”

Mickey chocked mid breath. He didn’t want to splutter like a baby, but he couldn’t fucking help it. He buried his face in his hand with the intention of concealing his flush and for some reason beyond him, Mickey felt his words slip out before he could catch them, bag them, bury them, and lock them in a steel vault. “Old man balls don’t get you going, huh?”

“Mmm,” Ian’s devilish look slipped back on to his features, darker than before, “I think you’d be surprised by what can get me going.”

And that was when it occurred to Mickey that Ian was possibly flirting with him, and that (an even worse thought) he was possibly flirting back.

What the ever living fuck.

How. Did. That. Happen.

He stood up abruptly with the full intention of leaving because he could not do that. He couldn’t talk with Ian like that because Ian wasn’t going to be anything to him. He was just a guy he worked with. A guy he really use to sort of distain the sight of. And that was how Mickey wanted it to be. He did. He really did. He was a colleague. A colleague. _A colleague._

Ian’s cheeky smirk faltered as Mickey stood and he sat up a little straighter in his chair, his eyes searching Mickey’s like maybe he understood that he had pushed too far. His eyebrows sagged downwards. A confused little puppy.

But Mickey couldn’t just storm out because that would give the wrong impression to everyone else. They might think Mickey was still disrespecting Ian and that might just cause the bullying to get worse. Only, Mickey’s legs burned to flee, to move and escape and not look back. He even felt a passing instinct to deck Gallagher.

Ian’s words buzzed around his mind and he swallowed harshly, hearing them echo in his ears... _you need to be more aware of the consequences of your actions..._ he walked over slowly to the door, fighting the impulse to run, and then pivoted leisurely in the doorway, his hand resting on the doorframe.

“Hey, Wilder,” And he addressed him by his stage name because he was talking to him from across the room loud enough for everyone to hear. With the absolute intention of everyone hearing. “I never got to explain Greenwell to you the other day, something kinda...came up. You wanna grab lunch with Mandy and I? We can go over what you need to know?”

The hurt expression vanished and was replaced by a small smug smile. Mickey knew Ian could understand what he was doing, talking across the room so everyone could hear, everyone could understand that they were allies now. They had waved the white flag. He could understand Mickey was trying.

“Yeah, okay.” He answered, his fingers back to trailing up and down the arm of the chair softy. He really did have wonderfully long hard worn fingers.

Mickey nodded and existed the room before he even had a chance to think about the wonders those fingers could perform.

 

* * *

 

 

A light wrap of knuckles sounded against Mickey’s office door, and then it creaked open and Claude’s big, friendly, scruffy face popped round the corner. He looked like a fucking floating head.

“Bro, you got a minute?” He asked hopefully.

Mickey, for the smallest spark of a second had thought the visitor might by Gallagher. But that was impossible because he knew for a fact that the escort had left to collect his newly made suit from Mr Harrison and had taken Mandy for company. Mandy who was his new best friend for life or something apparently.

“Something serious?” Mickey answered.

With that Claude nudged the door to swing open with his leg and came in, smiling as he answered, “Nah, wouldn’t dream of troubling you with serious business.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and shifted his chair away from the desk, leaning back to look up at Claude, “than sure, _bro_.”

He plopped himself down in the chair across from Mickey’s desk. “I just wanted to come and confirm about you being my plus one to my sister’s wedding.”

“I thought you were gonna text me the details?”

“I did.”

“Oh,” Mickey scrunched his nose. “really? You sure?”

Claude clapped his hands over his face, “Yes I am sure! Uh, you are such a shit friend.”

“Would a shit friend be attending a boring ass wedding with you?”

“I had to bribe you so by consequence it doesn’t count.”

“Whatever man, I’m still doing it aren’t I?” Mickey huffed like the grouchy old man he was. “Can’t you just re-send it?”

Claude avoided the question, “promise you’ll come?” His voice remained steady, but Mickey detected the hint of hope tailed on the end.

“You’ll fucking regret this.” Mickey only stated.

“I think I’ll decide how I feel thanks dude.” He looked down at his hands, linked in his lap, “I’d really like someone who...like a friend who accepts me to be there. For me.”

Mickey shuffled in his seat, sensing the personal waters that were about to be tread. “Piece of shit family, hey?”

Claude sighed softly and his cheeks drained in colour, his eyes even dropping like suddenly he was extremely tired. It was uncomfortable to look at; Mickey had never seen the boy look so sad. “They...” He started, but then seemed to decide against what he was originally going to say and settled for a weak, “Yeah.”

“Claude?” the man looked up at him slowly, tentatively, “I’ll come to your filthy family’s wedding. I’ll get smashed and I’ll do the bridesmaid on the dance floor and pinch every last object of value my eye’s land on and I’ll burp in your moms face and insult your father’s business and curse in front of the grandmas and it will be a mess and you will for sure regret it...but I’ll come.”

Claude looked speechless, but the light gently drifted back into his face and he offered up a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so many words in one go.” He said, sounding content.

“And you never will again.” Mickey retorted lightly. “Now get outta here, I gotta rest my voice, it’s all worn out.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So basically, Freckles, Greenwell is a fucking huge party with even like that canapé shit, and fancy ass champagne, and chandeliers and ball gowns and crap.”

Ian looked like he was mulling something over, before he nodded his head decisively, “Sweet. I’ve been looking for an opportunity to whip out one of my gowns.” He said with complete seriousness, and Mickey actually paused to question whether Ian was in fact being serious, because he didn’t fucking know what to expect when it came to Ian Gallagher. But then a still second passed in which Mickey was just baffled, glaring at Ian quizzically before finally the boy’s mouth quirked in a cheeky smile.

Mickey snorted a laugh into his hand. “Trust you Gallagher to be prepared for that shit.” And then he couldn’t help it as he barked out a short laugh. “It some sparkly red number, yeah?”

Ian grinned like a Cheshire cat, “You know it.” He confirmed suppressing his own laugh.

“It’s more than just that you idiot.” Mandy interrupted as she slid into her seat next to Ian’s, having returned from the bathroom and having apparently overheard their conversation. “Greenwell, it’s more than just fancy clothes and fancy food and fancy stupid money being flaunted about.”

“Well, sure, Mads.” Mickey challenged with mocking enthusiasm. “Why don’t you go on and fucking enlighten us then, Miss-I-know-everything.”

“Why don’t you just eat your stupid jell-o and shut up Mr-I-need-to-get-laid.”

“Hey!” Mickey snapped, eyebrows jumping all over his forehead, the crazy bastards.

“The truth’s the truth, Mickey. It’s not my fault you can’t handle it.”

“And it’s not my fault if I kill you in your sleep tonight bitch!” He retorted and Mandy forcefully kicked him under the table.

Mickey caught sight of Ian, who was watching them in pleasant amusement, and there perhaps was a for longing look to the way his eyebrows titled slightly downwards. The fine glaze shimmering over his eyes almost nostalgic. It gave Mickey the impression he wasn’t really so concerned with what they were saying, but was more focused the manner of their behaviour, the way they interacted with each other. Nonetheless, he felt the back of his neck heat up because he really didn’t want Ian knowing anything about his not so sex filled sex life.

Mandy dropped her head to Ian’s shoulder with a sigh of aggravation, “You see what I have to put up with!”

Ian wrapped an arm around her should casually; it was the warmest, softest way Mickey had ever seen anyone touch his sister. “Brother’s are such a pain in the ass.”

The comment sounded light hearted and Mickey would have accepted it as that without a second thought if Mandy hadn’t shot Ian an instantaneous sympathetic glace. Her eyes soft and round in a way she would normally only use around Mickey or at Mickey. Ian’s hand tightened affectionately against her arm, it was so subtle that if Mickey hadn’t have been watching, he would have missed it.

“So basically,” Mandy carried on, breaking the knowing look she and Ian had shared, “What my shithead brother failed to mention in his eloquently, long and detailed description and explanation, is that Greenwell isn’t just a fancy party, it’s a party of enticement.” Ian shifted to look at Mandy clearly. Perplexed as fuck.

Mickey picked up for his sister and Ian eyes slide across the table to pay him attention. “It’s an event for prospective and current buyers. By invite only.”

“We have to make them want to buy into us right, so we tempt them. We give them a glimpse at the goods. At what kind of world they could be a part of. And we make them want in.”

Ian still looked mystified, eyebrows furrowed and his mouth parted fractionally, his tongue poking into his cheek. Mickey could practically hear the cogs in his brain clicking and turning, trying to grasp an understanding. The word _adorable_ came to mind. A word he didn’t even know was a part of his vocabulary, but apparently when a redheaded escort was involved anything was possible. Apparently adorable was Ian Gallagher when he looked confused. But Mickey couldn’t think about him like that. He couldn’t think Ian was adorable. He couldn’t think about Ian. He _couldn’t._

“So...you, well... _trick_ them?” Ian finally rationalised.

Mandy and Mickey looked at each other, then back at Ian, and both shrugged a single shoulder as a silent off hand confirmation.

“Right, well.” Ian clapped, blowing out his lips with a sharp sigh. “I sure do swim amongst sharks don’t I?”

“I meant what I said about not trusting anyone.” Mickey proclaimed in his I-told-you-so manner, which got him a glare from Mandy.

“Apart from me. You can trust me.” She smiled with pursed lips looking honestly anything but trustworthy. Ian smiled easily at her, shaking his head and sighing a soft laugh under his breath.

“And what about you’re big brother here?” He looked directly at Mickey, his eyes not straying from his. Locking in place and fucking eating Mickey inside out like he was capable of draining his very life force. “He to be trusted?” He said, asking Mandy, but gaze still zeroed in on Mickey.

Mandy looked at Mickey like she was looking at the most ridiculously amusing thing she’d ever seen in her existence, and she was sucking her lips into her mouth to hold back her laugh. Maybe that should have been annoying, but Mickey couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled in his own throat. He managed to suppress it, swallowing it down forcefully and getting his facial features back in fucking control. Pulling a straight, unfazed, unreadable face.

“Absolutely not.” They both answered, completely in sink, and Ian honestly looked a little scared. Mickey didn’t blame him, Milkovich’s were quite a force to be reckoned with.

And then Mandy did actually start laughing and Mickey allowed himself the small privilege to crack a smile, he found he couldn’t quite help it after seeing the way Ian had literally gulped in the face of the two siblings.

“Were pulling your fucking leg man, you can trust me. I mean, we’re cool now right?” Mickey asked, mostly rhetorically, but Ian threw him a big enough smile that his question was confirmed anyway. They were cool.

Mickey let Ian smile at him all big and cheesy from across the table for a few good long seconds. Just drinking it in. Admiring the sight. Because really, what was there not to admire about Ian Gallagher?

The thing was, now that Mickey and Ian were on good terms, it was so easy to see the escort in a new light. He had been so busying trying to hate the man before that hadn’t really _seen_ him. _Appreciated_ him.

But boy could he appreciate him now. Now, with no resentment and grudges held against the man, Mickey was very quickly realising just how incredibly attractive Gallagher was. Not just average attractive like the kind of person you notice on the street and then forget about five minutes later. No. Nothing like that. Gallagher was _hot_. Could burn my fingers on your skin _hot._

Though that didn’t matter, he acknowledged. It didn’t mean anything. So he noticed the man he worked with was cute? So fucking what. That didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. Not now, not ever. He would just have to put this new realisation behind him, because it was useless thinking that way when he didn’t want a result from it.

It was dangerous. Risky. _Deadly_.

“So what’s my part in all of this? I was assuming I would just be doing my ordinary job?” Ian inquired, breaking Mickey out of his slight trance.

“Yeah that’s fine. You just stick to doing what you do best.” Mandy answered. “We’ll focus on the guests. You focus on Alberto. Simple.”

“Your job is to keep Alberto happy. This for him is one of the most stressful events of the year.” Mickey added, thinking that was all he needed to say, hoping Ian would understand. This wasn’t just any ordinary outing he would be taking with Alberto. The CEO was bound to be tense and stressed all night, therefore it wasn’t only Ian’s job to attend to his pleasure and feed his ego – he was going to have to ground him. Keep him calm. Keep him focused. Usually Mickey dealt with that, but this year, that was Ian’s responsibility, for he could attend to Alberto in more physical, emotional and comforting ways than Mickey could or would. And he didn’t just mean sexually.

“Well, that’s what I’m here for right?” Ian said, and for maybe the first time in the conversation he looked at them both with one hundred percent understanding. He looked comfortable to be discussing something he _knew_ , that he _got_. Something that was familiar territory. It hit Mickey then how unusual and jarring it must be to just be thrown into an entirely new world with each new client. A new place with new people and new rules and new customs and new behaviours. He felt he respected Ian for his ability to do that. He certainly would not be capable of doing the same.

A loud buzzing in his pocket threw him from his thoughts. Ian and Mandy both looked at him, falling silent as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone.

And single letter glowed up from the screen at him. _S_. It wasn’t until he caught Mandy eyeing him warily that he realised he had cursed under his breath. He stood up abruptly, lifting one finger to say silently that he would just be a minute, and excused himself with a throw of the hand before his was practically running out of the coffee shop to answer the call.

Pressing the answer button hesitantly, he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

The line was silent for a moment and then her voice drifted through the line sharply. “I wait too long, you must answer phone quicker.”

“Hey look I actually fuckin’ do stuff these days. I was in the middle of a something before you decided to kindly interrupt.”

“You are welcome.” She mussed, soundly a little too happy with herself.

A few quite seconds passed. Mickey shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot.

“So...something up or am I just gonna listen to you breathing down the line for fuckin’ ever?” Mickey pushed, worried for what he might be about to hear.

“Yevgeny and I arrive soon.”

“Next weekend right?”

“Saturday.”

“This Saturday?!” Mickey gasped, completely thrown.

“Next.”

More seconds of empty silence passed.

“You, uh...flying in?” Because he realised he actually had no fucking clue where she lived.

“Yes. You pick us up?” She said, sounding anything but eager.

Trying to disguise his shock, Mickey answered, “You want me to?”

“Yev.” She replied as if that was answer enough.

Mickey didn’t know why the thought of his son wanting to see him so badly made his skin run cold.

“He sure?” Mickey asked, voicing his feelings. “Are you sure?”

“It make him happy. So I sure.”

Mickey wanted to tell her that it really shouldn’t make him happy, he shouldn’t want to see Mickey. The father that abandoned him. That didn’t want him. He didn’t want Yev to have high expectations of him, he would only be disappointed.

Svetlana’s tone darkened as if she understood. “You disappoint him, I kill you. I ripe your brains out through your nose.”

“Bitch, you wish you could take me.”

“I could take you in my sleep. Ram screwdriver through your face.”

“Okay calm the fuck down wicked witch.”

Mickey almost sighed with how familiar this felt. It shouldn’t. It should feel strange and worrying. But Svetlana was Svetlana, and something about that just felt so oddly familiar it was strangely easy for Mickey to slip back into that relationship with her.

“You pick us up then?”

Sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly Mickey shot a look through the glass of the coffee shop where he was meet with a pair of green eyes and a pair of blues eyes watching him back. Mandy’s looked concerned. Ian’s looked curious.

He realised then that his fist was curling and uncurling at his side and he shoved it into his pocket to stop the nervous action.

“Yeah. Okay.” He replied softly, hating how weak his voice sounded.

Neither of them said a proper goodbye, they didn’t need to pretend with those formalities and after the brief discussion of further information to do with their visit, they both hung up.

Mandy and Ian were deep in conversation when he joined them again, but Mandy quickly broke off midsentence and pointed him with her sharp gaze.

“Who was that?” She pried, her nose scrunching slighting from her clear concern.

Mickey ignored the question, reaching over to grab his bag that hung over the back of his chair.

He could feel the eyes of them both burning into him and he felt the sudden urge to snap at them to fuck off. He resisted.

“Look I gotta go,” He shoved his phone that he still held within his firm grip back in his pocket and his fingers twanged with an ache from how tightly he had curled his fist around the object. Mandy gawked at him, very clearly pissed as she threw her hands out in front of her as if to say _what the fuck??!!_ Ian on the other hand looked somewhat mildly unfazed.

“Mickey, who was on the phone?” Mandy questioned louder than before.

Again he avoided the question, turning to Ian. “Mandy can cover any more questions you got. Or like, come and see me later or whatever, you know where I am if you’ve got a problem.”

“For fucks sake.” He heard his sister sigh quietly under her breath.

Ian darted a look at Mandy’s pissed but mostly worried expression and then turned back to Mickey, sweeping him with his gaze. But the act wasn’t sexual, he wasn’t checking Mickey out. He probably would have preferred that, because instead Ian was trying to read him.

Mickey placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Later, Mands.”

She glared up at him, “We’re gonna talk about this.”

“I can’t discuss all business with you. You know that.” He lied, too easily.

Ian chirped up, learning forward. “That was Alberto?”

“I can’t discuss business with you either, Gallagher.”

Before either of them could intrude any further, Mickey was swinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the entrance. “I’ll see you nosy fuckers later.” And then he was off and out the door.

 

* * *

 

Mickey sketched mindlessly in his note book, his thoughts drifting around babies and wives and red hair, when there was a firm knock at his door. He quickly rushed to hide his drawings under the stacks of lose paper on his desk and stuffed his pencil behind his ear before the door was cracking open.

The very red head he’d been thinking of appeared in the door way. He’d changed since Mickey had last seen him, and was now sporting a tight green t-shirt that really set his apple green eyes off. Perfectly fitted black jeans were clad against his long legs. His hair for some reason was damp, which made it darker than usual. A deep blood red. It tousled as it dried, some stray pieces drooping against his forehead. He looked newly shaven. Mickey gulped, gaping at him like the true idiot he was.

“Can I come in?” Ian asked hopefully, hovering in the doorway.

“If you’ve got a good enough reason to?”

He strolled into the room, ginning, “Getting to see me is a good enough reason as any.”

Mickey sort of agreed, but that was nobody’s business so instead he scoffed like that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard and rolled his eyes - because after all, what was Mickey if he wasn’t a liar?

“So you ran out of that coffee shop pretty quickly today.”

Mickey’s face fell, and he pointed Ian with a stern expression. “Is _that_ what you came here to talk to me about?”

“ _You_ wanna talk about it?”

All Mickey had to do was raise a single eyebrow, his expression rigid, for Ian to understand that he was in no way up for talking about it.

He looked back to his computer screen, believing their conversation to be over. But Ian hovered in the room. His presence filling the whole space. Watching him.

“I get that I’m fucking captivating or whatever but I really need to get on with my work now, Garfield.”

It was Ian’s turn to look unimpressed, which he did for about all of three seconds before Mickey could tell he was fighting back a smile. God, it was so easy for him to smile. Like it was just the natural disposition of his face or something. Maybe it was Mickey being cocky, or maybe it was the Garfield nickname – either way, he was going to catalogue it for later as something that amused Ian Gallagher.

Then Ian sighed softly and his eyes darted around the room, his fingers lacing and unlacing in front of him. “I need to ask you something.”

“Oh, is this about Greenwell?”

“No...” Ian drew out, his voice remarkably quite compared to his usual unashamed confidence. The tone made something in the air between them click, shifting from fun and casual, to something undeniably serious.

“Can I sit down?” He asked gesturing to the chair and Mickey nodded impatiently because that was a stupid question. Sitting down, Ian still didn’t meet his gaze as his eyes trailed along the floor nervously. Mickey didn’t push him; however on edge he may have been he was going to wait.

“Why...” He started and Mickey sat up a little straighter. “Why did you think Alberto assaulted me?”

Mickey sucked in a sharp breathe. He had not expected that, that’s for fucking sure.

“He’s just, he’s capable of a lot of things.” He replied vaguely, unsure of how to respond. But his answer was earnest at least.

“Like rape?” Ian answered surprisingly calmly.

“What no! I didn’t say that.” Mickey exclaimed hurriedly.

Ian pushed further, “But that’s what you meant right? When you said assault, you meant sexual assault?”

Mickey rubbed his nose, and closed down the tabs open on his computer – buying himself time before he tiredly replied, “Well, yeah. I guess.”

Ian brushed a hand through his damp hair and it twisted easily beneath his fingers. His eyes closed momentarily and Mickey allowed himself to gaze shamelessly at him. He couldn’t help it. Ian’s eyes fluttered back open and Mickey looked away, ashamed. “Look, Mickey, is there something I should know? About him?”

Mickey eyes widened and he jumped again to answer, “No! God no. I just needed to make sure everything was okay.”

“Okay for him? Were you trying cover his ass?”

“Again, I didn’t fucking say that!”

“Then why did you call me Mickey?! Why did you call to ask me? Why didn’t you call Alberto to ask him if he’d done something because that seems a hell of a lot more logical? He’s your boss! What am I? Just some toy he keeps around to blow off steam!” Ian bellowed his cheeks burning red and his hands clutched in fists on the table.

Mickey stood up like he’d had electricity pumped through him. “Ian!” he snapped breathing heavily.

Ian’s mouth feel open with a silent gasp and his pupils dilated, the green rim around the edges starkly contrasting against the black. He slammed his mouth shut quickly and stood up also, his chair skidding back against the floor.

“Why, Mickey?”

_Because maybe I know more about this shit than you think I do. Because maybe I know what it feels like to be the victim._

“Why does this even matter? I was looking out for you is that such a fuckin’ crime?!”

“Is that the only reason?” Ian half whispered, and his eyes were downcast with his brow drawn tight. Fear tinged at the ends of his words. It hit Mickey then like a slap across the face - Ian was scared that Alberto might be a danger to him. A threat to his safety.

He jumped to reassure him. “Yes. Yes that’s the only reason, okay? I had to make sure you were fine because it’s my job to look out for members of this work place. I get that I didn’t exactly do that for you at first, but I will now.”

Ian didn’t say anything; he also didn’t look anymore comforted so Mickey rushed on.

“If Alberto had hurt you, he could have easily lied to me if asked. So I had to ask you directly. I guess then we could get you help if it was needed. Just...” He rubbed a hand over his face, unsure of how to comfort the man’s fears, “don’t fear Alberto in that way. He won’t hurt you. Yeah, he’s done a lot of terrible things that I’ve had to cover his ass for in the past. But there’s a line of where my loyalty to that man ends, and if he crossed that line I would not think twice about abandoning him.”

Ian pulled on the collar of his shirt agitatedly, like he suddenly felt overwhelmed. But he did look up to meet Mickey’s eyes and that was at least slightly reassuring. “You can promise me that? Because I swear to God if he steps out of line I will get his ass locked up behind bars so fucking fast he won’t even have time to tuck his dick away.”

Mickey couldn’t catch the chocked laugh that burst in his throat, short and loud. Ian cracked a half smile himself and the solemn tone of the conversation was subdued, both of them breathing a little easier.

“I promise.” Mickey assured.

Ian bit into his lip and smiled almost shyly. “Okay, thanks, Mick.”

Mickey’s registered the nickname, but he forced himself to appear unfazed, going to sit down again in his chair but stopped himself when Ian started to speak again.

“So second question...”

Mickey sighed dramatically with a roll of his eyes, “Oh for fuck’s sake at least give me some recovery time, Gallagher.”

“Not up for a round two, hey?” He chuckled and then, holy fuck, legit winked. And it should have been cringe worthy, it should have made Mickey roll his eyes even harder because it was so utterly lame. He was most definitely not meant to find it sexy. But he was blushing like a prepubescent teenager anyway.

“Ah fuck off.” He retorted, his go to come back. It might as well have been his catch phrase.

“I just wanted to ask if I could use your bathroom, man. That’s all.”

“And you can’t use the public ones in the corridor because?”

“Because I’d prefer the whole floor to not know about my bruised up body.” And with that he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small compact tub.

Mickey frowned and eyed the object in the escorts hand. “Wait, you still have that bruising?” To which Ian shrugged nonchalantly and Mickey peered closer at the tub. “Is that– is that makeup?”

“Yeah well I’ve got a date with Alberto so I’ve got to cover it up some way don’t I.”

Mickey’s breathing picked up and he felt anger spick within him. He wanted to argue, to tell Ian he shouldn’t have to do that. Alberto should take him as he is and that’s fucking that. But Ian seemed to read his sudden horror.

“We all have work attire, Mickey. Yours is a suit and tie. This just is a part of mine.”

Mickey scratched his head, unconvinced, but glanced over at the bathroom anyway, “fine. Go ahead.”

Ian smiled a thank you and headed towards the bathroom, leaving Mickey to dwell in the pool that was his confusing thoughts. He could hear Ian shuffling around in the bathroom.

“This is a fucking luxury!” Ian called out in amazement. “You even have a shower in here!” And then there was an abrupt loud clatter of what must have been his things tumbling to the floor, followed by a long string of muttered curse words.

Mickey jumped at the sudden noise, groaned his annoyance to the heavens, and then walked over to the open bathroom door ready to tear Gallagher’s face off. “What the fuck are–” He cut off sharply, eyes pooping out of his head as he gaped at the sight that was shirtless Ian Gallagher.

There he stood. In the middle of the bathroom. Shirt discard God knows where, not that Mickey gave a shit that shirt could disappear forever for all he cared. His black jeans hung low on his hips, exposing the sharp cut v-lines of his lower abdomen, a thin shadow of hair disappearing into the top of his pants. Mickey had been right in assuming that Ian would be ripped, but Jesus, knowing it and seeing it were two very different things. He had those killer washboard abs that men sweated endlessly over to achieve. His shoulders were broad and strong with muscle, and his nipples pink and delicate against his pale skin. A tattooed eagle shored across the side of his torso. Gallagher had an incredible body, no two ways about it, but that’s not what left Mickey speechless. What did that was the light, fading patter of bruises that blushed across him. Purple and blue and crimson and all the shades in between twisting across his form.

“....are you doing?” He finished with a mumble, all anger lost to the wind.

“Sorry...” Ian answered awkwardly his face twisting in a grimace as they both surveyed the toiletries cluttered around Ian’s feet. He must have knocked them off the countertop.

“I thought as an escort you were meant to be refined and shit?”

“Yeah, well Curtis is.” Ian pulled a face that looked almost embarrassed and a little sheepish, “Ian...not so much.”

“Okay whatever asshole,” Mickey scoffed with a role of his eyes. “Can Curtis then please clean up this mess?”

Which Ian just scoffed at before leaning down to pick up the items and gave Mickey the most goddamn glorious view of his ass. He stared, because it was practically impossible not to, and then he pulled himself together and looked away sharply.

“You shouldn’t have to cover those up.” He voiced before he could stop himself, his eyes catching on further bruising on the man’s shoulder blades. He gulped harshly and ignored the way heat was gathering at the back of his neck and at the soles of his feet. Ian finished picking up the items and turned round to fix him with an unreadable expression.

“I have too. No one wants to pay for damaged goods.” He shrugged softly, forcing a shallow laugh.

Mickey took a step closer into the bathroom.

“Can’t he just...look past them? Or like give you some fuckin’ time off to at least heal up properly, Jesus.”

Ian seemed to shuffle closer, fiddling mindlessly with the compact tub of makeup. “I’ve already taken enough time off.”

“If only you knew who did it.” Mickey said, trying to sound casual but he honestly thought he was about to sweat through his fucking shirt he was so paranoid of the close proximity of Ian’s bare body. He could even smell him. A subtle citrusy smell. It then occurred to him that Ian’s hair must be damp because he’d just taken a shower, the smell distinctly some kind of shower gel or shampoo. That would explain the change in clothes too.

“I’d beat the living shit out of them.” Ian snarled, his expression suddenly darkening and his fingers tightening around the makeup as he pushed himself that fraction closer to Mickey. He radiated such frustration in that moment that Mickey could practically feel the heat burning of the man’s skin. It made his own body burn ten times more. It clouded his mind and he forgot how to even think straight. All that he could see was the intense dark eyes of a pissed off redhead who’s jaw was jutting out in that defiant way and who’s biceps were tensing with anger right fucking there in front of his face.

“They didn’t break anything?” Mickey uttered, working on complete and utter impulse as he raised his hand, taking another step closer to Ian and reaching out to let himself trail a thumb over one of bruises on his ribcage.

He felt Ian go rigid beneath his fingers. He _saw_ Ian go rigid, all of his muscles tensing up right in front of him. And if anything, that only made Mickey want to touch him more. But Ian didn’t move away. He didn’t ask Mickey what the fuck he was doing, didn’t even make a noise. Just stood there, stock still, letting Mickey’s fingers trail across his skin.

His soft, warm, citrus smelling skin.

His fingers glided over the bruise, running in one slow circle around its outline and then Mickey looked up slowly, scared of what he would see. Anger? Fear? Disgust?

Instead he was meet with the scolding gaze of Ian’s eyes burning into him, the green in his eyes fucking _glistening_. He didn’t, thank every star in the bloody sky, look angry or scared or disgusted. Shocked? Slightly. But the undeniable curiosity and excitement dancing across his features was strong enough to override any other expression. And that, above all other things passing between them in that moment, is what made Mickey twitch in his boxers.

Tension crackled like electricity in the air between them and Mickey caught Ian’s adams apple bob as he swallowed silently his eyes trailing to Mickey’s lips. It made Mickey’s mouth run dry. He could easily lean in, closing the small distance between them and let his tongue trail along his throat.

“Nah, I’d say everything is intact, Doctor.” Ian sighed softy and his voice jerked Mickey back into reality. He gave one firm push of his fingers into the flesh and he heard the faint sound of Ian’s breath catching in his throat before he pulled his hand away swiftly.

“Yeah. I’d– I’d say so too.” He mumbled to the floor and then backed out of the bathroom, quickly spinning to turn his back on the man as his heart thud like a drum beat in his chest.

A handful of painfully long minutes passed by of Mickey sitting at his desk and staring at his computer screen with the absolute incapability to do any work. He could still hear Ian in the bathroom, pattering about and finishing up. When he emerged his shirt was safely back on, his hair was almost completely dry and (Mickey assumed) all his bruises were patched up.

“Thanks,” Ian started, looking unfazed from their small bathroom encounter. From Mickey’s fuck up. “For letting me use your bathroom, you know. That was really convenient.”

Mickey remained uncomfortably silent.

“So, I know that this probably isn’t my place to ask, but do you think that maybe in the future I could use it again? Your bathroom? For this stuff? Sometimes I’m coming straight from practice and I don’t have time to rush home to smarten up and it’s horrible having to turn up to work a sweaty mess.”

“That defiantly isn’t your place to ask.” Mickey replied swiftly.

Ian sucked in a long, audible breath and held it like a child waiting to hear good news. He looked ridiculous and hopeful and all the things Mickey didn’t want him to look.

“Please, Mick?”

Maybe it’s the nickname. Or maybe it’s that Mickey is an idiot. Probably the later, but he found himself unable to stop from nodding.

“fucking fine.” He grumbled. Only it was really fucking not fine. Not any of it. Not Ian. Not the situation. Not the way Mickey desired to touch Gallagher again – even for just a moment.

But also, maybe all of it, was completely and utterly irresistible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well well well, it's been a long time. And honestly I am so so sorry. I just want you to understand that I have not lost interest in this AU and I was not giving up on it. I just have been extremely busy at the moment, and I still will be for about four more weeks - but then I'm going to be on summer break and will be able to really throw myself into this AU. Thank goodness.


	8. Friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why are you doing this?” Mickey sighed, tearing his eyes away from the glorious food and the glorious man presenting it.
> 
> “Because we’re friends.”
> 
> Mickey frowned and for one utterly stupid moment he wanted to exclaim to Ian but I don’t want to be your friend. And that thought made him freeze in place and stare at Ian with a baffled expression, the heat rising on the back of his neck. What in fact did want Ian to be? Did he want to be his friend? Did he want to be more? But...what was more? There were too many questions buzzing about Mickey’s head like a colony of angry agitated bees.
> 
> But friends, friends just didn’t seem adequate. He couldn’t be Ian friend when he was imagining what he looked like when he undressed himself. Surely that was part of some universal code of friendship.

_Warm pale hands swept across Mickey’s hip. Up and down. Up and down. Slowly dragging against his burning skin. Twisting in to softly run blunt nails down the outside of his thigh. Coating his tender skin in harmless, teasing scratches. Now the underside of his thigh. Flicking up to catch the curve of his ass. Firm, grasping, massaging hands. Now at the inside of his thigh, reaching, gliding up..._

“ _Holy fuck_ ” Mickey yelped as he was started out of sleep. His skin was coated in a thin sheen of sweat and his pulse was hammering hard in his ears. He also had a situation to be dealt with in his boxers.

He groaned exasperatedly into the confines of his quite apartment as his head hit the pillow with a _plop_. He wanted his bed to swallow him whole and plunge him back into whatever mad hot dream he had just been lost in.He scrunched his eyes tight and tried to catch at the fraying ends of his dream...

_Swollen red lips pressed against the crook of his neck. A hot tongue flicking out to catch at his skin. The feel of something hot and heavy pressing against his stomach, beginning to slowly grind down on him..._

Mickey slipped his hand down under the covers to palm himself through the thin material of his boxers.

Maybe Mandy was right, maybe he needed to get laid.

But getting laid through some easy one night stand meant going to gay bars or seedy clubs which cracked open that possibility of getting caught, or seeing someone he knew. It also meant men who were too aggressive, too needy, too selfish. Everything Mickey didn’t need in his life.

Or maybe he could just release all his frustrated sexual energy at the gym. Who needed a hard, slick dick pounding into them when they could pound their pain away on a treadmill?

 

* * *

 

 Thursday morning Mickey did just that.

The gym was a good place for him to burn away unwanted energy and frustrations. Of which he had many. Work stress was something he had just _had_ to find a release for, and though back in the south side attending a gym would have probably been his idea of hell, now he found it gave him a sense of routine and after every work out his body burned with a pleasurable ache and sense of calmness that was hard to achieve otherwise. He found himself craving that release, that expel of energy, it wasn’t a feeling he knew often. Not in the same way. There was always that moment when he’d pushed his body past that point of what he thought was capable, when he was drenched in sweat and his muscles were on the brink of giving way, that he found peacefulness. A freeness.

Mickey filled his water bottle up at the fountain, his music pumping through his headphones into his ears at the volume that was somewhat deafening but also fucking satisfying when a light weight landed on his shoulder. He jumped round instantly, knocking the hand right off of him and squared his shoulders ready to meet the motherfucker who had dared to touch him.

Only he was meet with a firm chest in a moderately tight fitting tank top. One that he could see the slight teasing hint of tight pecks under.

_All the commotion...the kiddie like play...has people talking...talking_

He let his head slowly tilt up, for what felt like too long, until he met the face of the one man he had hoped to avoid at all costs.

_The dark of the alley_

Ian was standing seriously close to him. The hand that had touched Mickey now hanging somewhat awkwardly mid-air. He could see the splatter of his freckles so distinctly up close. The random course they out lined on his skin like some complicated dot-to-dot. A small bead of sweat clung to his temple and his hair was ruffled and moist with sweat.

_The break of the day_

Mickey frowned. Ian’s mouth moved silently for a few seconds. Mickey just frowned harder and blinked in confusion as he watched the man’s pink soft lips form silent words. As if Mickey didn’t need any more excuses to stare at his lips.

_Head where I’m driving...I’m driving_

Ian’s cracked a smile with his gleaming pearly whites that did nothing but momentarily blind Mickey in the face of some kind of fucking angelic glow, and his shoulders did what Mickey could only really describe as a little jiggle as he silently laughed before him. And then Mickey was looking at his shoulders. Shoulder. _Shoulders._ His mind wouldn’t move past shoulders. Holy shit. Ian Gallagher’s shoulders in a tank top were a sinful sight. The tight muscles and swallow indents of where they joined together. The sleek jut of his collar bone.

_Soft lips are open...them knuckles are pale..._

Ian leaned in dangerously close, reaching his hand out for Mickey’s face. He jerked back instinctively his eyebrows disappearing in to his hairline as Ian continued to reach out.

_Feel like you’re dying_

And then he felt the brush of Ian’s thumb against his ear lobe and he may have possibly stopped breathing.

_You’re dying–_

Ian’s hand came away again holding Mickey’s earbud and the sound of Ian’s laughter flooded down on him, hitting him like a brick wall. The rest of the sounds of the gym drifted towards him only after.

Ian dropped his hand, letting the ear phone drop to Mickey’s side. He considered Mickey with an expression of amusement that made him want to squirm.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re like a grumpy old man?” Ian teased, clearly referring to the still present frown on Mickey’s face.

But how could Mickey not frown? Ian was ridiculously attractive and he was smiling and laughing and looking at Mickey like he was pleased to see him. Which really didn’t make any fucking sense at all because Mickey had fucked up. He had touched him and violated his space and let his desires get away with him and he’d practically outed himself and then run away and ignored it and ignored Ian and shit shit _shit._

Yet, here Ian was. Right in front of him.

That’s not how it was supposed to work. That’s not how Mickey’s life worked. Usually he fucked up, life got shitter than usual, he got punished by some cruel universal power, and then he’d pick himself up and move on. But Ian standing in front of him muscles bulging and skin flaunting with smiles and twinkling eyes galore – that didn’t seem like any kind of punishment.

“I just-” Mickey trailed off awkwardly, not meeting Ian’s eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well I didn’t know this place had a gym until Al mentioned it, and better yet, apparently it’s free for me to use. Which is pretty cool I guess. I’m thinking of checking out the pool next. What do you think? It any good?”

The idea of Ian’s shirtless form clad only in some swimming trunks and dripping wet head to toe sounded more than good. That seemed fucking exceptional.

Mickey shrugged. “I dunno, man. I guess.” He replied because he hadn’t actually ever used the pool. Some deep seated worry about being exposed and vulnerable and water and drowning and his feet not touching the floor and being out of control and no no no he was not going anywhere near it.

“So you come here often?” Ian carried on like they were in some sort of club. “Well,” His eyes darted to Mickey’s own exposed arms in his tank top, “clearly you do...”

Mickey felt the blush rise on his cheeks instantly and crossed his arms over his chest self consciously, not missing the way Ian’s eyes followed the movement.

“Yeah, I gotta catch a break from work somehow, right?”

“Right.” Ian agreed, his lip twitching just shy of a smirk. “I was beginning to think suits were the only clothes you owned. That you ate, slept and showered in them.”

“Not that you should be thinking about me in the shower.” Mickey quirked because he couldn’t resist. Goddammit he just _couldn’t resist_.

Ian had the good grace to look flustered and bashful for one glorious moment before his face broke out into one of his mighty grins.

“Oh I wouldn’t dare.”

The glint of mischief in his eyes told Mickey a different story.

“Mickey!” A loud voice called and both men were startled out of whatever strange trance had been keeping their eyes locked almost daringly. Mickey spun round to face the direction of the voice. A wild Claude was bounding towards them.

“Homie I’ve been looking around for you for ages!” He pulled up just short of knocking straight into Mickey and heaved on the spot, out of breath and agitated.

“Wow dude just take a breather would ya” Mickey said placing a hesitant hand on the man’s back as he doubled in half to rest his hands on his knees, wheezing like the chain smoker he wasn’t. “Fuck, you look like you need to lie down. That’s not good Claude. You’re only twenty three, you can’t die yet.”

“This is c-crazy.” He stopped to take a huge gulp of air. “I was on the senior track team and now I can’t even run a few stair cases!”

“What kind of seniors are we talking about here?” Mickey teased and then peered up at the redhead to find him regarding Mickey and Claude with a strange, almost stiff expression. His lips drawn in a thin straight line.

“Well, by jeez someone’s feeling sassy today. And anyway, it’s ironic for you to make old people jokes, you’re like an old man living inside a young man’s body.” Claude replied.

“So I’m not the only one telling you that then.” Ian raised a delicate brow and knocked his elbow against Mickey’s arm, sending a jolt of shock up every nerve ending Ian’s skin had brushed against.

“Hey Ian, sorry bud. Was just having a mild heart attack.” Claude interrupted before Mickey had a chance to reply.

Ian gave a short, yet genuine laugh before replying, “You okay?”

Mickey spied him through his eyelashes, trying to judge what he was thinking. Wondering if the expression he has caught on him earlier meant anything.

Claude straightened out, letting Mickey’s hand slip from his back. He exiled slowly. “Yup, all good.”

“You gonna tell me why risked hyperventilation to talk to me?” Mickey said, drawing them both back to the point.

“Okay steady on, let a man breath.” Claude ran a hand through his hair, his cheeks still flushed red. “Alberto has been trying to get hold of you. Where’s your phone dude? Aren’t you supposed to be on call this close to Greenwell? The man’s a hot mess.”

 _Minus the hot_ , Mickey thought to himself.

“Are you fucking serious? I’m scheduled to meet with him in like,” He glanced down at the watch on his wrist, the one the company has gifted him with at Christmas. “half an hour! Bitch be interrupting with my me time.”

“Your me time?” Ian questioned teasingly, doing little to suppress his amusement.

“Yeah it’s quality time man, everyone needs that. Well I do or otherwise I end up cracking two-forties on the skulls of the innocent.”

“He’s not lying.” Claude added.

“That did happen one time.” Mickey shrugged.

“Three times.”

“Whatever, who’s keeping count. Now is your gangly ass gonna escort me there or do I need the help of a professional?” Mickey said addressing Claude but gesturing back at Ian, said professional. The song that was still playing through the one earphone still in his ear crashed into the chorus of the song.

Claude snorted and started heading towards the exit doors, turning to make sure Mickey was following him. Only Mickey was turning himself to look at Ian and was delighting in the bewildered expression on the escort’s face as he was left abandoned at the water fountain.

Mickey played that look on Ian face over and over in his head on a loop for the whole drive back to offices.

 

* * *

 

 So maybe Mickey would have preferred to stay at the gym and ogle Ian bench press three times his weight, maybe that was something Mickey could then later sketch, maybe that’s how Mickey pictured an ideal start to his day. But whatever Mickey ‘maybe’ wanted in life was completely and utterly meaningless in the face of Alberto and his job.

He spent the rest of his morning, then his afternoon, and eventually his evening locked up in the board room with Alberto and a handful of the other big boys. Mandy had been quick to point out to him early on in their employment that it was a sick reflection of the patriarchal society they lived in, and an uttering fucking disgrace that no a single woman was working at the top of the company. At the time Mickey had nodded his agreement in the interest of not pissing Mandy off, but as he’d grown older her words still stayed with him, lingering on the recesses of his mind, falling directly on Mickey’s side of uncomfortable.

Boss man never showed face at this meetings, but he memoed in a couple commands and queries over the phone while the rest of the men squabbled over fine details Mickey had become attuned to dealing with.

Mickey watched warily as Alberto drifted in and out concentration, his temper willowing dangerously close to that line of completely fucking losing it at the most random intervals. That was always Mickey’s sign to pour the man a stiff drink and distract him with pleasantries and subconscious compliments to boost his ego. It was tiring and tedious, but it was necessary.

Ian strolled in around seven in full blown Curtis mode, from his walk to his talk to the shamelessly smug expression plastered on his face, and he and Alberto wisped off to some fancy dinner on the Gold Coast while Mickey ate sandwiches in his office with Mandy and complained about pointless shit.

Nevertheless Alberto seemed soothingly content when he arrived back, placid for the rest of the evening and on into the early hours of the morning.

 

* * *

 

 “It’s gorgeous! Oh my and it’s dry cleaned to perfection. You’re going to look dashing.” Charlotte cooed as she examined the navy suit hanging on the back of Mickey’s office door, delicately dragging her hands down the smooth material.

“Let’s thank the fine craft of Mr H’s tailoring huh?” Mickey replied, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair as he mindlessly ploughed through a stack of financing information for Greenwell. “Shit, if I’d seen this many zeros at the age of ten I think I would have fainted.”

“I don’t think I can even pronounce that number.” Charlotte sighed as she came to glance over Mickey’s shoulder.

“Filthy dirty money” Mickey said letting out his own sigh. “ain’t it glorious?” He quipped sarcastically, his voice hollow and hard.

Charlotte offered up a sad smile, “It keeps you going though doesn’t it? Who knows where we would both be without it.”

Before Mickey could answer there was a solid knock at the door, and before he knew it, the man who had been tormenting his thoughts was there in the doorway.

Ian’s eyes trailed over Mickey in his office chair, then over to Charlotte who was still standing just behind him, her hand on the back of his chair from where she’d been leaning over to look at the paper work. He seemed to consider what he had walked in on before pointing questioningly at the door across the room that lead to the bathroom. He was silently asking Mickey if he could use it, following the agreement they had settled on.

Mickey pointed him with a blank expression before relenting after a couple seconds and nodding tiredly. Ian darted across the room shooting him a cheeky grin before disappearing behind the door and closing it firming.

“Mickey.” Charlotte started, her tone suspicious and slightly too full of warning for Mickey’s liking. She sounded like a wary nosy grandma. He ignored her but she pushed on. “Why is Curtis in your bathroom. Your private bathroom. That is just for you. For your private use-”

“Yes okay lady I get it. No need to fucking hammer the point home.”

“Mickey...”

“Generosity never killed anyone.” He raised a warning eyebrow at her, making clear he didn’t want her to push further. “Curiosity sure did though.”

“Oh stop it, Mickey. You know that act doesn’t work on me. If I shrivelled at the empty threats of people at this company I wouldn’t have been working her for ten years. Let alone working under Alberto.”

Mickey let his head flop down on to the desk and let out a deep exaggerated sigh.

“Talk to me, come one. Tell me what mess you have got yourself into now.”

Mickey mumbled into the wood of the desk gruffly and hit his fists against it pathetically. Like a big fucking baby.

“Oh god. This is exactly why I don’t do men. Bunch of drama queens the lot of you.”

Mickey knew he was being pathetic. But God help him he was tired as fuck, working on caffeine alone and so hungry he could probably guzzle down a whole banquet. There was also basically a semi naked ginger in his bathroom which had something to do with his mood. He was moody beyond reason, sick of work and Greenwell and Alberto snapping at him like he just some shit on his shoe.

He wished Mandy was with him. She would get it, and he could bitch and complain and she would just slap him out of it. Knock some sense into him by telling him to man the fuck up and get his shit together.

“If men had to have periods. Have child! The world would come to a standstill I tell you that!”

“Charlotte.” Mickey finally pleaded pulling his head of the desk. “He just uses it to get ready before going to see Alberto. It’s no big deal.”

“Alberto has his own bathroom.”

“Which he doesn’t let a single soul use.” He reminded her before grumbling, “Greedy fuck.”

“Mickey!”

“Oh just get of my dick Charlotte you know it’s true.”

Her mouth twisted somewhat a smile, but Mickey could see her trying to suppress it.

“He’s been getting a lot of crap around here so if he wants to hang around me fine, it’s better than him getting fucking harassed by some of the assholes here.”

Her eyebrows drew together and her mouth gapped slightly, started by Mickey’s revelation.

“If my memory serves me right, which it often does mind you, you yourself didn’t take such fancy to him.”

“The past is the past, mini. He’s– he’s not that bad.”

Charlotte pushed some of her sleek hair behind her ear, pouting and scanning him over once. “ _You_ can’t call me mini; there is too much irony in that for me to take you seriously.” Then a timid smile pursed on her lips, “He’s not _that bad,_ hey?”

Mickey brushed off her comment, turning back to the sheets on his desk. “Yeah, whatever I dunno. Can we get back to work please? ”

“Aw,” She made a face like she was looking at a baby. “look at you making friends!”

“Shut up.”

“This is incredible”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Only, it turns out, you kind of do.” She winked at him her face full of delight as the bathroom door clicked open and Ian came out.

He looked fucking edible. He was in tight dark blue jeans that sung only praise for his ass and a soft checked button down shirt. His hair was freshly styled, practically screaming to be touched. To be tugged and pulled and caressed. He wore a lot of checked shirts. He must really checked. And what did Mickey care, he looked ridiculously good in anything.

“Hey Char, how’s it going?” Ian addressed her as he made his way to exist the office.

“Wonderfully thank you, Mr. Wilder. And you?”                                

“Not too bad thanks,” His eyes strayed to Mickey, and his eyes softened and he gave him a smile Charlotte hadn’t gotten. “Hey, Mick.”

“Hey, Ginger.” Mickey replied pushing his glasses higher on his nose. And then before Mickey could say or do anything ridiculously stupid like ask Ian to hang around he was watching his perfect ass disappearing out the door. So maybe he didn’t want him to go, but at least he got to enjoy watching him leave.

Charlotte was giggling like a little girl. “Oh I like him. I don’t see why anyone would have anything against him. Maybe...maybe it has something to do with his carrier?”

“He shouldn’t have to be ashamed of who he is.” Mickey said, the irony of his own statement slamming him in his gut like one of the very punches he Dad had landed on him back in the day.

“No...no he shouldn’t.”

 

* * *

 

 “This is crazy.” Ian moved further into the office, “they can’t work you like this. Endless hours. No pay. Horrific conditions,” His arms flung out around the sparklingly modern and polished office, his gaze momentarily landing on the HD plasma television mounted on the wall. He plopped himself down in the seat facing Mickey’s desk letting out a loud sigh. “It’s just dreadful really.”

“Outrageous.” Mickey nodded in agreement, playing along with Ian’s serious attitude.

“Fucking slave driving you.” Ian exasperated again, his arms being flung in the air again, making his shirt shift up slightly in his grand movements, revealing a teasing glance at the wonderfully chiselled body that lay beneath. Mickey couldn’t help but be fascinated by Ian when he talked with his hands, when he was so animated, just bursting at the seams with life. It was almost overwhelming. Experiencing such electric, crackling energy. Just watching it made him feel like he’d taken a shot of liquid gold. It left Mickey with the unusual impulse to go out and do something bold and grand himself. It was fucking infectious.

“Tell me ‘bout it.”

“We need to get you out of here.”

“The windows are bared. There’s a dragon down the passage. I’m chained to this desk. It’s too late for me. Save yourself.”

“I can’t leave you behind.” And damn Ian’s expression when he said it.

“You should be an actor.” Mickey said, because when he says stupid shit like that with those puppy green eyes and yearning smile, anyone could believe him.

Ian stares at the cream rug on the floor. “I am of sorts,” He answered his voice hushed in the space between them. “So I brought Chinese.” He hurried on, his tone now confident and excited again, as if he wanted to brush over his previous comment. He plonked down a big brown paper bag on the desk. He’d been clutching it since he entered the room.

The smell of the warm, fresh food had Mickey practically drooling and his stomach rumbled as if on cue.

Ian laughed. “See, I knew this is what you needed. You’ve been hovelled up in this room for two fucking days and haven’t eaten a thing.”

Ian was only vaguely correct; Mickey had eaten, but hardly anything. A sandwich here, a coffee there. It wasn’t enough to properly function on.

“Why are you doing this?” Mickey sighed, tearing his eyes away from the glorious food and the glorious man presenting it.

“Because we’re friends.”

Mickey frowned and for one utterly stupid moment he wanted to exclaim to Ian _but I don’t want to be your friend._ And that thought made him freeze in place and stare at Ian with a baffled expression, the heat rising on the back of his neck. What in fact did want Ian to be? Did he want to be his friend? Did he want to be more? But...what was more? There were too many questions buzzing about Mickey’s head like a colony of angry agitated bees.

But _friends_ , friends just didn’t seem adequate. He couldn’t be Ian friend when he was imagining what he looked like when he undressed himself. Surely that was part of some universal code of friendship.

“We are?” Mickey said raising an eyebrow and making sure to keep his tone light, teasing. Yet he himself couldn’t help but notice the dryness in his throat.

“Sure. We fight of bullies on the down low and play doctors. I think that qualifies as the foundations for a stable blossoming friendship.”

_They didn’t break anything?” Mickey uttered, working on complete and utter impulse as he raised his hand, taking another step closer to Ian and reaching out to let himself trail a thumb over one of bruises on his ribcage._

_“Nah, I’d say everything is intact, Doctor.” Ian sighed softy and his voice jerked Mickey back into reality._

It was impossible to fight of the blush that burst across Mickey’s cheeks.

“Ian-”                        

“Mick, no.” He laughed softly, his eyes closed as he shook his head lightly, fighting a small grin. A small dazzling grin that had Mickey blushing harder. “It’s fine.”

“But Ian-”

“Seriously, Mickey. I mean it.” He fixed Mickey with his intense gaze and his face was earnest. “It’s completely fine.”

Something deep within Mickey clicked in that moment. Like the kind of soft, rusted and faint click of popping open an old lock. The lock to some tangled, damaged and aching part that was buried deep within his being, something that had just always been a part of him, something he carried around everywhere. Every moment of every day. And it all, all the ache and the need and the pain threatened to burst right out of Mickey’s very being in that one stroke of a second.

_It’s completely fine. It’s completely fine. It’s completely fine._

That’s not the response Mickey had been conditioned into expecting. He expected pain. Rage. Loss. Hurt. But not...not this. Mickey had never heard such simple words that could struck him so sharply and fill him with a lightness he didn’t know he could feel. He felt breathless.

The only person other who’d ever been positive about Mickey’s sexuality was Mandy, and even then, they only referred to it when necessary. Or in complete moments of comfortableness.

He wanted to grab Ian’s face and he wanted to kiss him and he didn’t want it be about sex. Mickey didn’t know how to express himself, how to convey his emotions. He had always been better at showing them. Kissing Ian, holding and grabbing at Ian, maybe that could show him just what something like those words meant to Mickey. The impulse was so absolutely outrageous and unacceptable in his pained life that he had to bit on the inside of his cheek to feel steady again.

Maybe Ian wasn’t referencing to Mickey’s sexuality directly. _Maybe_ he still didn’t know Mickey was gay, though he would have to have shit for gaydar if he was gonna be so fucking oblivious to what he himself felt was a flashing beacon above his head. Maybe Ian was just being kind. Mickey thought that could be true. Ian could be kind. Mickey could see that in him. Mickey kinda liked that about him.

“Now shut up and eat your food you idiot. You look like you’re about to faint.” Ian chided lightly. Mickey rubbed at his nose, feeling a tinge of shyness. Shyness of all things, God help him.

Ian dived right in, tearing open the paper bag and haphazardly pulling out the containers of food. He flicked a pair of chopsticks at Mickey’s head, giggling, fucking _giggly_ as they caught him on the nose.

Mickey gasped in mock horror, “Asshole.”

Ian shot him a mischievous smile like he just didn’t give a shit and would do it all over again if he could.

Mickey would probably let him.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes munching away on the food. The distinct smell filling the room and clogging Mickey’s sense. He was wolfing down his noodles like there was no tomorrow and he was on the edge of starvation. He was almost sure he had sauce dribbling down his chin but he really couldn’t find it in himself in that moment to give a shit.

Uncomfortable in his well fitted suit he shifted back in his chair and slipped his jacket off. Then undid the buttons on his shirt sleeves and rolled them half way up his forearms, exposing the pale skin hidden underneath. And then just for extra comfort he undid the first two buttons on his shirt collar, loosening his tie.

When he looked back up Ian’s eyes were wide and fixedly on him. Their sight connected and Mickey breath stuttered as he watched Ian’s gaze visibly darkened over. Ian was looking at him like he was ready to eat him alive. Unconsciously he darted his tongue out, running it along his lip and watched in awe as Ian’s eyes trailed to follow the movement. Ian shifted in his seat, his food forgotten and his eyes never once leaving Mickey’s. Just watching the way Ian was watching him made Mickey grow half hard in his boxers.

Mickey was the first to look away. Burying his gaze in his Chinese which suddenly was not half as interesting. “Alberto’s gonna be waiting for you.” He huffed softly, saying it as much to himself as he was to Ian. Because he needed reminding. He needed to know that this was something that couldn’t happen. Not once, not ever.

He rested his hands on the table and looked down at them, feeling like a black pit was tearing open inside him. The deathly black eyes were piercing down on him once again. The scar on his ribcage was starting to tingle. He took in the small pink scratches on his hands, stark against his ghostly pale skin. They jerked in his mind the memories of the same kind of scratches that Yevgeny’s tiny sharp little nails would leave against his skin.

He felt like he really needed to say something, to state that whatever was going on between them shouldn’t be happening. To clarify that there was in fact nothing going on. That Mickey didn’t want anything from him...even if maybe the way he felt like his skin was melting every time he so much as brushed up against Ian said otherwise.

Finally he settled for mumbling into his Chinese, “Thanks for bringing this. You didn’t have to.”

When he looked up Ian’s expression was reserved and he too was occupying himself with his food.

“It’s-” He stopped and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, avoiding looking at Mickey the same way he was avoiding looking at him. “don’t worry about it, anytime.”

“So...” Mickey started and immediately felt like an idiot because he didn’t actually have anything to say but was desperate to regain the relaxed tone of only moments ago. “This _practice_ that you keep sneaking off to? What the fucks that?”

“Oh um...you caught onto that hey?” Ian asked, and the way he fiddled with one of the longer pieces of his hair, pushing it out of his face felt somewhat self-conscious. Then a bashful smile spread across his face and his eyes lit up in a way that made Mickey wonder what made them sparkle like that. No one’s eyes usually sparkled that bright. “It’s just my band practice.”

Mickey’s surprise was about as subtle as hurricane could be.

“You’re in a band?” He questioned, fighting the awe he could hear in his own voice and hating the way his voice trailed off into a key that was way too high to not be noticeable.

“I’m the lead singer.”

Oh my God.

“You can sing?”

Ian shrugged both shoulders with his hands out in front of him like it was actually some big surprise to him too, “Apparently.”

Holy shit.

Mickey slapped his hands over his face blacking out his surrounding, “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He mumbled into them.

The next thing he knew, warm large hands had surrounded his and were tugging them gently away from his face, parting them like two curtains. And then Ian’s face was right in front of him. He was standing up with his body leaning over the desk, bringing himself right into Mickey’s personal space.

Their faces were only inches apart and Ian’s hands were still wrapped around Mickey’s. Warm and secure. Grounding him despite the heavy thud of his heartbeat and the sudden difficulty he was facing in catching a solid breath. He could feel the soft puffs of Ian’s own breathing feathering over his cheeks and see the golden glint on the tips of his eyelashes, and the tinges of blue scattered in his eyes. He’d never noticed that before. Ian’s swiped his tongue out against his bottom lip, moistening it and simultaneously scrambling every coherent thought of Mickey’s. But shit, _those lips._

And no longer could Mickey assume that Ian wasn’t thinking exactly what he himself was thinking because Ian was staring at his lips and his pupils were blown wide open with desire and he had this look of determination and insecurity written all over his face. The kind of look you only ever saw on a person when they were conflicted on the matter of wanting to do something bold.

Mickey pulled his hands out of Ian’s roughly like he was being burned and stood up instantly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Mick-” Ian was instantly alarmed, and then his whole face feel. His smile scrubbed away. His eyes going round in shock with the distinct alarm of fear. His eyebrows dropped and his bottom lip was hanging out.

“Don’t fuckin touch me.” Mickey blurted out before Ian could say anything, watching warily as Ian's hands reached out for him again but then pulled away at his rough tone.

Ian was standing on one side of the desk his shoulder rising and falling with his heavy breathing and Mickey was facing him from the other side, his fists curling and uncurling at his side. Thank fuck for the desk between them. _God,_ he wanted to hit something. The blaze of heat was seeping into his veins and he wanted to strike something with all his might.

“Fuck...” Mickey whispered to himself because he was freaking the fuck out with Ian just standing there saying _nothing_. “Just leave me the fuck alone okay I don’t need you coming in to care for me like I’m some kid, that’s not why you’re here, Gallagher. Just stick to your own fucking job and I’ll stick to mine.” He snapped, knowing full well how ridiculous he was being but he let it spill out of his mouth anyway like some last minute hope of defence. A random, senseless spiel of shit that allowed him to hold up his rigid walls. One minute he was thanking Ian for being kind and the next he was reprimanding him for it, God he felt like such a dick. But if it was a dick he needed to be to keep Ian at bay, then that what he would be.

Ian’s face twisted into harsh angles and rigid lines. Crumpling in dismay. “How am I treating you like a child at all?” The escort’s body was held taut like a rubber band, ready to snap at any moment. “So you’re allowed to try and fight my own battles for me against some dipshit employees around here but as soon as I do something for you I’m being patronising?

“I was asked to look after you okay, simple as that, so don’t start reading into things when I’m just following orders.”

“Following orders, huh?” Ian scoffed and his shook his head turning his eyes heavenward. “It’s just some cheap takeout, Christ, if I knew you were going to throw a fucking fit I wouldn’t have bothered. You want me to apologise for trying to be fucking nice?!”

He wanted to think straight but he also wanted to lash out and Jesus if he wasn’t feeling so conflicted by what his instincts were screaming at him to do and what his reason was advising him. He knew from his mistakes that he couldn’t be rash, he couldn’t work on impulse because that would only lead to some even worse consequences.

He took a deep breath and rubbed at his lip, praying that his heart would calm down. “Gallagher...I don’t know what you thinks going on here. But it needs to stop. I don’t- I’m not like that.” He said in what was surprisingly a reasonably calm voice.

Ian turned away, running a hand through his hair and looking like he wanted to be anywhere but in that room...with Mickey. It hurt, but it was good – Ian needed to leave and he needed to stay away.

“Oh don’t bullshit me Mickey– don’t act like you don’t know what’s going on here, you know exactly what’s going on.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Ian suddenly spun round and he looked just about as furious as Mickey felt, he jaw was set in a hard line and his eyes were blazing, but he’s words were soft, weak. “Seriously? I never took you for a liar.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.” Mickey let out a cold, short laugh. The irony in Ian’s words too strong for him to resist. “I lie for a living, Gallagher.”

“Well go ahead and lie all you want, but I don’t believe any of it for one second. I can see straight though you, Mickey Milkovich.”

And with that Ian let out a soft sigh, his shoulders sagging in what would appear defeat, but Mickey felt like he knew Ian better that to assume this was over. He left the room, looking back only once at Mickey with an unreadable expression before turning away.

 

* * *

 

 Mickey felt like shit for the rest of the day. He was torn up about fighting with Ian, about lying to Ian, and the concept that he felt like shit for that was the biggest indication of how dangerous exactly his situation was. And that’s why he had shut it down.

Mickey had to stay at the office until 2:30am. He was use to the ridiculous demands of his job, but he was not use to the distracting thoughts that hazed over his mind. It was hard to concentrate when all you could think about was some stupid boy.

Once he was home in the security of his apartment he lazily pulled off every layer of clothing, dropping each garment carelessly as he slouched straight towards his bed, his eyelids already threatening to drop.

Despite his mood and desire to sleep, Mickey gingerly plucked his sketch book and a pencil up off his bedside table. He opened it to a new clean page, and let his hand take over.

Half an hour later, Mickey stared down at his handiwork.

It was a sketch of Ian on the first day they had meet. His pencil marks were all strong and definite, swerving in and out of each other to build the picture up out of lines and curves. He didn’t use any shading, just allowed the work to maintain that contrast between the dark grey of his pencil and the crisp white of the page. It was a snap shot of that first moment in which Mickey had seen Ian laugh, really properly laugh. When he’d thrown his head back and his shoulder had shook. His hand was placed on his stomach and his eyes were closed tight.

On the opposite page, in the exact same style, there was Ian in the moment Mickey had pushed his hands off of him and told him to not fucking touch him. The sting of hurt in his eyes. The way his body had stiffened and crumpled in on itself, sagging towards the ground like a limp flower.

 

* * *

                  

“Mmm...icky? Mickey?”

“Hey, Gallagher.”

“What the fuck it’s...” The sound of rustling sheets fuzzed against Mickey’s ear through the phone. “It’s fucking five o’clock in the morning.”

“I wake you up?”

“What do you think, asshole?” He groaned harshly, his voice ragged with sleep.

Mickey gave in and said the only thing that was playing on his mind, doing the furthest thing from shutting it down. “I didn’t wanna fight with you yesterday.”

“Well you should have thought about that yesterday.”

“I’m outside.” He blurted out turning to glance around himself at the empty sidewalk and then up at the dark and dingy apartment building that Ian apparently lived in.

“Wh- wat?”

“I’m outside”

“You better be fucking lying.” There was a few seconds of pause. “That’s what you’re good at isn’t it?”

“I have to say, this pathetic attempt for a flower bed is the most unnecessary thing I’ve ever seen. As if that would compensate for the ugly ass apartment complex it’s dumped in front of.”

“Oh my god. You’re insane.” Ian groaned loudly and there was more fuzzing over the speaker of his phone, like perhaps Ian had buried his face or the phone in his pillows.

“No, but I am getting tired of waiting. You’re coffee is getting cold.” Which was a lie. The coffee he had bought for him only five minutes prior was burning against the palm of Mickey hand, agitating the skin there and making Mickey feel sticky in the already morning heat of the waking day.

“You...I don’t– what the...what the fuck is even happening right now?”

“I dunno, you tell me. You coming down stairs or what?”

Silence on the other end.

“Look I get this is kinda fucking creepy. I ain’t no Edward vampire Cullen or whatever the fuck his name is...so, you uh, you want me to go?”

More silence.

“If you want me to go, I’ll go.” He huffed stuffing his free hand into his pocket to stop himself gnawing his fingernails off with nerves. Some part of him actually hoped Ian would want him to go, at least that way he would knock some common sense back into him.

Finally the other man decided to speak up. “Just...uh one second, I’m–” The creak of bed springs and then the light patter of bare feet on hard flooring. “Jesus Christ I’m gonna ring your neck you idiot.”

“I’d advise against it. You wouldn’t last in prison.”

Ian’s voice grew soft, delicate. “Shhh...Carl, go back to sleep. I’m just popping out.”

Mickey didn’t know who the fuck Carl was or why the fuck he was sleeping in Ian apartment but Mickey felt himself physically sag with the way Ian voice dropped loving in just those few simple words. He didn’t have any right to feel disheartened. No fucking right. He had turned Ian away, and that was that.

“So you know my coffee order?” Ian asked returning to the phone. He sounded more awake but his voice still carried that deep rough morning crispness to it. Mickey briefly wondered what it would be like to have that voice whisper in your ear as the body it belonged to slid against you. He banished the thought quickly because again, he had _no right._

“You’re more concerned about that rather than the fact that I know where you live?”

“We’ve already established that you’re some kind of professional stalker, but my coffee order, like seriously?”

“What can I say? We all have our strengths.”

“You got any others I should know about?”

Mickey licked his lips, glad Ian wasn’t with him in person to notice the way his words had his mind racing. “Get down here and find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm finally done with my exams - you know what that means, more time to working on this AU, about time, am I right?!  
> the song Mickey was listening to at the gym is: Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon  
> Hoped you enjoyed this chapter! It was a little shorter than previously but I wanted Greenwell to have it's own chapter so I thought I'd end it there. Heads up, Greenwell is in the next chapter.  
> Thank you all so much for the support I really appreciate it :)


End file.
